I fake my way through the morning class on improv techniques. And there’s still no sign of Cole at lunch.

When I report to work with Glory, she sends me out to the scene shop to see if I can find a hammer. There’s a nail sticking out of the baseboard, and she wants to fix it before someone gets a shoe caught.

I have no idea where to look for the hammer, though. I hear voices, so I brace myself for the bright red name on the back of the building, and I head around that way. George and a younger guy are taking a cigarette break in the shade of a tree. And I stop dead in my tracks. Because those bloody letters on the white wall are gone. There’s only a clean, blank space where they used to be. And I wonder if Willa had them painted over. Out of kindness to me.

“You need something?” George asks.

“A hammer,” I manage to say. “For Glory.”

The other guy smiles then. “Anything for Glory,” he says, and he disappears around the front of the shop.

“I remember your mama.” George’s voice is gruff, like maybe he’s not used to using it much. “A real shame.” He takes a bandanna out of his pocket and wipes at his forehead, and I wonder what’s taking the other guy so long to find a hammer. Surely he knows where they keep them. “Real nice lady.” I nod, but I can’t say anything. I’m trying not to look at George. Trying not to look at that blank wall. “A beauty, that’s for sure. Hard to forget a woman like that.” George’s eyes glide over my skin, and I shiver. “You’re a dead ringer for her.” He takes a step closer to me. “Anybody ever tell ya that?”

The other guy finally comes back with a hammer, and I practically snatch it out of his hands and take off running toward the farmhouse. I can’t stand that blank wall anymore. Or George’s sad voice. Those wandering eyes.

When I report back to Glory, she pounds the nail in. Then she stands there, the hammer dangling from her hand, and looks at me. Her hair is especially frizzy this morning, and she’s wearing a soft yellow sweater. It makes her look younger than she is. She could be one of the students.

“Avril?” she says. “You okay?”

I nod, but Glory is still watching me. “Did you get a chance to look through the notebook?” I nod again, and Glory turns away. She busies herself with pulling dead leaves off one of her plants. “Find anything?”

“No,” I tell her. “Not really.”

The lie bothers me, but I’m not ready to tell anyone about B. C. yet.