‘I don’t know,’ I said, hands shaking. I couldn’t leave before finding that photo. What if Davis had somehow, inexplicably, figured out where I was already? My stomach twisted, and I imagined the gelatinous hollandaise coating my stomach as my headache reminded me that it had never fully gone away.

Vera laughed. ‘That’s what you said yesterday about dinner, and don’t tell me you didn’t have fun.’ She seemed to have written off the discovery of my bruise completely. I was grateful for that, but I still needed to figure out what was going on. ‘Besides, it’s the most gorgeous hike. I know you’ll love it.’

I was about to mutter an excuse – rain check, work to do, overindulged at brunch – when my eyes caught a slice of something glossy, peeking out from beneath the dresser. I rushed into the closet and grabbed it. The fifth photo.

‘Lucy?’ I heard on the other end. ‘You still there?’

Relief flooded me so wildly, I almost wanted to cry.

NINE

We made our way to the trailhead in John’s truck.

It was dirty, dust caked on its silver exterior, likely from driving out to his studio in the woods. Through the back window, I saw two-by-fours, bits of plywood, and a huge roll of fabric wrapped in plastic, jostling every time John stepped on the gas. He’d told me that he made his own canvases – so much more affordable, so much more control. As I sat there, smelling stale coffee from tossed-aside to-go cups and the naked stink of weed, I tried to imagine Davis in a pickup – he’d always wanted a VW, that was his dream car – or him with two-by-fours, or a circular saw.

No question, Davis knew how to work with his hands, but not to make things – to break them instead.

As we rode along, Vera switched songs like a DJ in one of the clubs Ellie and I used to go to in Bushwick, moving on after forty-five seconds or so, taking only the verses she wanted – croony Dinah Washington, bouncy Katy Perry – and leaving the rest. She sang loud and slightly flat, John’s head turning toward her as frequently as safety allowed, his fingers always twisted through hers, the two of them knit so tightly together.

‘Slow down,’ Vera said, as a turnoff came into view. ‘I want to go by the cabin. My hiking boots are there.’

John nodded, making the turn, and we found our way to a dead-end road.

‘This is John’s studio,’ Vera said as we pulled up in front of a small cabin, even tinier than what I’d imagined. Wooden siding painted dark gray, faded and eaten through by weather or bugs or who knows what. A roof that looked like it was barely holding up. Trees everywhere. Bushes and vines. The ends of summer’s growth.