The single bathroom stank of urine, with a beer poster of a half-naked woman on the wall and cases of wiper fluid stacked to the ceiling. She opened the sink cabinet, hoping to find something useful or sharp, and saw only a leaky drain and a wrinkled magazine. The cover showed a woman tied up and blindfolded with a gag in her mouth. Shuddering, Helene closed the cabinet and washed her hands and got out of there.

Before dawn, Roy pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse and peeled her clothes off in the back seat. She tried to be enthusiastic. Afterward they slept for a few hours. Helene dreamed of the dead woman, her head trapped between Roy’s big hands.

They met the rest of the guys outside a hilltop palace of glass and concrete, where Roy and Frank took six paintings off the walls and Hollywood packed them into flat wooden crates from the gray truck’s trailer. The paintings were all different sizes and the crates matched. Another special order, Helene thought. For some lawyer in Houston.

She watched the driveway from an upstairs bedroom, trying to slow her pounding heart, praying to God that nobody showed up. Then the house went silent and the men were outside, closing the trailer doors. Frank looked up at the window where she stood alone, then turned away. Roy called from the stairs. “Come on, honey. Time to go home.”

On the road again, headed east on a series of two-lanes that wound through the mountains. Roy was different now, less self-contained. His mood was wilder.

It was past dark when they stopped again at a high, snow-dusted crossroads where dirty semis idled in rows outside a long metal building spotted with rust like a stray dog with mange. She wondered about the truck drivers, what kind of men they were. Better than Roy, or worse? A bright sign read cheap diesel. home cooking. hot showers.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I could really use a shower.”

He reached for her. “You smell just fine to me.”

“Roy. Girl stuff? I need my things.” When she opened her door, the cold air pinched at her nose. She wanted to take her coat, but didn’t. She’d been fine without it before.

He walked back and unlocked the trailer. “Which bag?”

“Both, Roy. Jeez. I want to change my clothes.” The perfect amount of attitude. Actress of the year.

He handed out her pink backpack and the leather duffel. “I’ll come with you. I could use a shower, too.”

She patted him on the chest. “Yes, you definitely could.” She led him toward the building, chattering away. “Boy, I’d love a real meal. How ’bout I meet you in the restaurant? This might take a while.”