They approached another piece entitled BROKEN. Two jagged pieces of a heart hung against a wall. Red paint ran along each side of the aperture. Shan’s hand floated toward it.

A man with a thin mustache stepped forward. “Please, no touching.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Do you know anything about the artist? Do you know whether she has family attending tonight?”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

Shan and Chandani perused the exhibit for another hour. Chandani peered through the lens of her camera, snapped photos where allowed. At a few minutes before eight, guests began funneling down the hallway back through the foyer, toward the reception hall. Shan and Chandani joined them.

Thick, wood doors opened to a large room. Ivory linens draped long tables. China platters overflowed with samosas and kebabs. Roses spilled out of crystal vases. A small stage was centered in the front of the room. A black podium and two chairs sat at the center. Patrons mingled in suits and ties, long, flowing skirts, high heels—professors, critics, or perhaps Lahore high society. They imbibed glasses of champagne distributed liberally by servers.

Shan scanned the room for the woman she traveled over eight thousand miles and ten time zones to find.

“Do you see her anywhere?” Shan asked Chandani.

“No. But let’s grab seats near the front.”

At fifteen past the hour, a woman in a silk suit and short cropped hair approached the podium, tapped twice on the microphone. “Please, if I can have everyone take a seat for our guest of honor. We’re about to begin.” A hush fell over the crowd. They set their empty goblets on tables, made their way up the aisle, filed into empty seats. She read Laila’s bio. “It is a great honor to welcome her here tonight,” she said. “Please give a warm welcome to the artist, Laila Rahim.”

Shan pivoted in her seat.

Laila floated down the aisle in a black hijab, a startling red salwar suit, heels that clicked on the floor. She climbed the stage, shook hands with her introducer, and whispered something in her ear. She moved behind the podium, lowered the microphone. It amplified her breath, the crinkling of papers. “Thank you so much, Dr. Enami, for that lovely introduction. And thank you all for coming. It feels surreal, this life of mine, that I’m able to share my art with our nation at this late age. It is a privilege and an honor for which I am immensely grateful.”

Shan scrutinized Laila’s full face—her wide-set eyes, her dimpled cheek, her mannerisms—for any sign of their relation. She found none.