“If there is one.” I gulped. “I’m afraid there might not be a key.”

There is no key.

I’d never named that painting. It was officially “Untitled by Roy Wolfe.” The red backgrounds, and then the red and blue, the descent into the depths of hell. The black and dark blue, hell itself. The flecks of gold here and there, when something tried to poke its way out, but it never did.

The speck of white for…

Fuck.

A priest’s collar.

That was the speck of white.

The fucking speck of white.

“Father Jim,” I said.

“Who’s Father Jim?”

“Our parish priest. He and my father were…” What had they been? Certainly not friends, but my father had given exorbitant amounts of money to Father Jim’s ministry.

“They were what?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why did you say his name?”

“I was thinking about one of my paintings. It hangs in the lobby of our building. I’ve gotten offers in the seven figures for it, but I never sold it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Have you sold other paintings?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“So why not this one?”

“It’s too…”

Too what? Too personal? All my work was personal. Any artist who created something impersonal wouldn’t be in business for long. Individuals had to feel something when they looked at art. If it wasn’t personal to me, how could it be personal to them?

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure. I just can’t sell it.”

She scribbled more notes.

“Why don’t you describe this painting to me.”

“You can see it in the lobby of the Wolfe building.”

“I can probably see it on your phone.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up a photo of the painting in question.

“No,” she said, “that’s not what I mean. I’d love to see it, but that’s not what I’m after right now. I want you to describe it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because it has meaning to you.”

“All my work has meaning to me.”

“Yes, but this one you’ve kept, despite offers of purchase. I want to hear you describe it in your own words.”

I handed her my phone. “You want to look at it while I describe it?”

“Sure.” She took the phone from me. “It’s lovely. How big is it?”

“It’s a large piece. Five by six feet.”

She nodded. “All right. Describe it to me.”

“The base is crimson, a bright red.”

“Yes, I see. Why? What were you feeling when you painted the piece?”

“It’s an older piece. I’ll have to remember.”

“All right. Do you want to try some guided relaxation? That might help.”

My nerves sizzled along my arms. Guided relaxation. That was why I’d come, after all. Still, the thought unnerved me.