“Your father—” She stops herself. She doesn’t want to blame the whole thing on Roy; it wouldn’t be fair, or accurate. “We stopped letting you go to Mrs. Woodrow’s, then you and Jennifer stopped being friends. And then, well …”

“She died,” Frankie provides.

“Yes. It doesn’t do much good to say it now, but I’ve always felt bad about that. I think we were wrong not to let you go back over there.”

“I liked Jennifer.”

“I know. It’s so hard to be a parent, Frankie. In some ways, it’s even harder when there are two of you, because it’s not like two people splitting the work. It’s more like you have a coworker you can’t completely trust, and you have to constantly check up on what he does.… ” She’s pinning it on Roy again. She clears her throat. “It wasn’t right, what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

Doesn’t it? She isn’t sure what he means by the remark. She should have apologized for what happened with Jennifer—for everything—long ago, before he ever started the portrait. But then she feels a pang of annoyance. Just how much weight is she going to lend this piece of poster board? There’s no way to alter it now, anyway, if he’s so close to being—

“Done,” he says happily. He steps back from the easel, capping a highlighter.

“Really?” Teresa swallows. She tries to smile. “You’re finished?”

“Yep. Want to see?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have to.”

“Come on,” he says. “Take a look.”

You get what you deserve, she tells herself. There’s your past, and there’s your future, and right now is all about owning up to one and dreading the other. She stands, keeping the tablecloth around her, and walks slowly toward him.

When she’s halfway between the chair and the easel, the ground begins to shake.

Just barely—a tremble that courses through the dirt and vibrates the grass against the bare soles of her feet. A rumbling sound rises out of the quiet afternoon. She runs her eyes across the sky again. She glances at Frankie.

“You feel it?” he asks.

She nods.

“Come here! I want you to see it first!”

“I do feel something,” she says.

He waves her over. “Hurry!”

Her heart is thumping beneath the cloth. The trembling grows as she moves up alongside him and looks at the portrait.