“I thought I would never forgive you, Lavinia. But today, seeing you, recognizing you—seeing how you too have changed—I do.”

“You—forgive me?”

“In Esdra’s place. In the magnanimity of Esdra’s soul.”

“But—Esdra? I thought your name is …”

“Esdra was my friend. My brother. I am acting in his place.”

“But nothing like this ever happened. I—I never left anyone to die—I did not. You must be confusing me with …”

“Another Lavinia? I don’t think so.”

Vann laughs expansively, drinking whiskey.

On shaky legs L.K. tries to stand. “I want to leave now—Vann. I am leaving …” Her voice is plaintive, pleading. The whiskey has made her very weak.

“Leaving for—where? You couldn’t possibly go alone—in this neighborhood. And how’d you get back to your hotel? It’s miles away. You can’t walk. There are no taxis here.”

“I—I could call …”

“No cell phone service here even if your phone wasn’t dead.”

L.K. has not the strength to scream. If she ran to a window—the loft is on the fourth floor, she could not jump out. If she stood at the window and screamed and flailed her arms, Vann would easily overcome her within seconds.

“You can’t leap from a window, it’s four floors to the ground.”

L.K. is dazed. Alarmed. (Drunk? Her senses are muddled.) Trying to recall the old Durant: the old, first-floor studios. A young man, a boy really: Esdra. Had that been his name? She’d known several artists. Possibly, one had been Vanbrugh. They’d vied for her favor, had they? Competed for her attention? Though possibly, she hadn’t wished to think at the time, they’d laughed at her among themselves as they laughed at other privileged white women.

“Stay a while, dear. You’re in no condition to venture out of here. Let Vnn take care of you.”

Naïvely she wants to think—He has forgiven me. He will protect me.

Vann circles his stubby fingers around L.K.’s wrist. His fingers are strong. The nails are ridged with paint, dirt.

L.K. shudders. She would move away, but Vann holds her fast, and she knows that any struggle on her part will be met with force.

“Dear Lavinia, why did you come here? You’ve made a long journey just to come here.”

L.K. doesn’t protest. For this is true, she sees in retrospect. Her journey began years ago.

“Of your own volition, dear. No one forced you. You’ve come back here with me.”

He will protect her, she thinks. He has said he has forgiven her, he will have mercy on her.

Slipping his arm around her shoulders. His heavy arm, L.K.’s slender shoulders. If she can make herself small enough, L.K. thinks.