“Oh, I don’t know if I could make it a job. It’s more a release—painting to get rid of something until there it is on canvas.”

I nodded. “I’d like to see what you’ve done.”

She gave me a sideways look. “They’re kind of private. Maybe sometime.” We reached the dorm. “The thing is,” she finished, “I’ve just been having fun, and I guess I’ve never wanted to face what comes next.”

“I’ve had times like that. But something’s always happened. It’ll come.”

“I guess so.” She looked at me again, suddenly hesitant, as if waiting for something more. Then she shrugged and reached for the door. “Anyhow, thanks for the walk.”

She turned in the doorway, poised to disappear, a tall, beautiful girl with a voice as stylish as gin and sports cars, eyes as deep and tempting as the things I’d never had. All at once I had to say something, do something.

“About what’s next,” I tried. “Maybe you can start small. Like next Saturday.”

She looked down. “What’s next Saturday?” she asked innocently.

I hung there a moment. Then her eyes raised, and her grin cracked wide and sharp and clean, confirming her joke.

I smiled back. “There must be a party.”

The party was louder now. The haze had lowered and people drank and smoked in the loose-jointed rhythm that comes with late evening, staring more openly as I moved across the room. Rayfield had materialized near a floral display, watching me. I looked past him. Through the sliding glass doors to the patio I could see only darkness, making the party seem self-contained, as if it were happening on a spaceship. I moved toward Kris Ann.

“Mr. Shaw.”

It took me a moment to place the greenness of her eyes: the reporter who had questioned me. “Back from the cemetery so soon?” I asked.

She placed hands on hips. “I’d like to know what that was all about.”

She spoke with a trace of Boston accent, its edge matching the knife keenness of her eyes and the quick, kinetic movements of someone who burned off calories just standing around. Her auburn hair was cut short and she had a pert face with no makeup and freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her jawline was square and her skin quite pale and clear. She could have been the girl I’d dated in high school, Mary Moore, who had closed her eyes when I touched her in the dark and had four children now.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

“This is an important charity event,” she said crisply. “I’m covering it. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I married well.” I began moving. “Excuse me.”

“We’re not through—”

I turned back. “What’s your name?”

“Nora Culhane. Channel Seven.”