“Bigger money,” said Hansen. “Meaning I’m a total ass for talking to you. You caught me off guard and used me—” He brightened suddenly. “But you screwed up. You were obligated to offer me the presence of an attorney, so anything I’ve told you is inadmissable—”

“You watch too much TV, Nicholas. We’re obligated to offer you a lawyer if we arrest you. Any reason we should arrest you, Nicholas?”

“No, no, of course not—”

Milo glanced at me. “I suppose we could exercise the option. Obstruction of justice is a felony.” Back to Hansen: “Charge like that, whether or not you got convicted, your life would change. But given that you’ve cooperated . . .”

Hansen’s eyes sparked. He pawed at the scant hair above his ears. “I need to be worried, don’t I?”

“About what?”

“Them. Jesus, what have I done? I’m stuck here, can’t leave, not with Mother—”

“With or without Mother, leaving would be a bad idea, Nicholas. If you’ve been straight—really told us everything, we’ll do our best to keep you safe.”

“As if you give a damn.” Hansen got to his feet. “Get out—leave me alone.”

Milo stayed seated. “How about a look at your painting?”

“What?”

“I meant what I said,” said Milo. “I do like art.”

“My studio’s private space,” said Hansen. “Get out!”

“Never show a fool an unfinished work?”

Hansen tottered. Laughed hollowly. “You’re no fool. You’re a user. How do you live with yourself?”

Milo shrugged, and we headed for the door. He stopped a foot from the knob. “By the way, the pictures on your gallery website are gorgeous. What is it the French call still-lifes—nature morte? Dead nature?”

“Now you’re trying to diminish me.”

Milo reached for the door, and Hansen said, “Fine, take a look. But I only have one painting in progress, and it needs work.”

We followed him up the brass-railed staircase to a long landing carpeted in defeated green shag. Three bedrooms on one end, a single, closed door off by itself on the north wing. A breakfast tray was set on the rug. A teapot and three plastic bowls: blood-colored jello, soft-boiled egg darkened to ochre, something brown and granular and crusted.

“Wait here,” said Hansen, “I need to check on her.” He tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, looked inside, returned. “Still sleeping. Okay, c’mon.”

His studio was the southernmost bedroom, a smallish space expanded by a ceiling raised to the rafters and a skylight that let in southern sun. The hardwood floors were painted white, as was his easel. White-lacquered flat file, white paint box and brush holders, glass jars filled with turpentine and thinner. Dots of color squeezed on a white porcelain palette fluttered in the milky atmosphere like exotic butterflies.