“He wears, whatever…I don’t know.”

“All I’m saying is that it seems like a good outfit to pick if you knew someone was going to, I don’t know, throw jam doughnuts at you. And you wanted it to show up well in pictures.”

“I was there,” Scarlett said coldly. “It just happened. It wasn’t planned.”

“Sure,” Max said. “There’s no way that an actor would lie or pretend or stage something.”

“He would have told me.”

“Of course he would,” Max said. “Whatever you want to think. All actors care about is that you spell their name right. Trust me. I live with one.”

“So do I,” Scarlett said.

“Fine,” Max said, holding up his hands. “Ignore me. I’m wrong. Your brother is different from the rest. It was all a coincidence.”

Try as she might, though, Scarlett couldn’t ignore it. Max’s idea immediately took root in her mind, and soon its tendrils had spread in all directions, crowding out other thoughts. There was something wrong about that morning.

“You know I have a point,” he said, leaning close. “Bet it drives you crazy.”

Deceptions

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Eine Kleine Schadenfreude

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The Door That's Always Open

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THE VISITOR

There was a collection of Martin family photos on the hallway wall right next to the Jazz Suite, covering the life histories of all four Martin siblings. There were the usual baby and school photos, but there were also a few signature candids. There was one of Spencer as a sophomore dressed in a gangster suit with a fake mustache for Guys and Dolls. There was Lola looking demure and lovely in her Easter dress when she was ten. There was six-year-old Scarlett riding her bike out on the sidewalk, her expression unreadable under the cloudlike mass of blonde curls that covered her head like a weather pattern. There was Marlene, aged eight, in the playroom at the hospital giving a rare smile.

In the center of the collection was one group photo that, if you studied it closely enough, would tell you all you needed to know about the Martin siblings. At the time the picture was taken, Marlene had just gotten out of the hospital. The chemotherapy had caused her hair to fall out, and a reddish fuzz was just growing in. She was making a sun-in-the-eyes scowl. Lola stood behind her, her arms clasped around her shoulders, a radiant smile on her face. Spencer had just hit the same height as their dad, and he seemed to tower over them all.

Scarlett was on the edge of the picture. It was taken just before she realized that, for her, longer hair just meant bigger hair and that there was a secret point just below the nape of her neck—the magical line past which her hair became a nightmare.