The hairs on my arms stood up. The music took the whole Phantom of the Opera theme too far.

Get a grip. The Realtor must have tuned a radio to the classical station when she’d shown the house, and then she’d forgotten to turn it off. Had she played opera on the third floor? Pretty smart if she had. No wonder the house had sold so fast.

Violins soared. I pushed the door open, half expecting a strange man in a half mask. But what I found was worse. I froze as I stared at the tableau before me. Then I screamed.

So did some of the people inside.

Instead of canvases, cameras filled the space—a small forest of tripods with a clearing in the middle. Where several women were being tortured by a serial killer.

I ran. Down the stairs. Into Violet’s bedroom. Grabbed the door. Slam!

“Who are you?” the torturer shouted outside. “How did you get in?”

She’d followed me. A female serial killer. They exist. My mother watched documentary after documentary about them.

“How did you get in?” The gall of her. “This is my grandmother’s house. I belong here.”

“Emsley?” She sounded surprised. “Did I scare you? It’s performance art. Before you call the police, look up Suugarworks. Two U’s, one word.”

I typed Suugarworks into my phone with shaking fingers.

Wikipedia showed up as the top search result. First was her picture—with a different hairstyle—next to the words notable contemporary artist. Then her name, Strena. No surname.

Bam, bam, bam. My heart couldn’t slow down. A broken heart shouldn’t have to beat that fast.

According to the next paragraph, Strena’s work explored body art and the exploitation of women in a consumer society, women’s bodies as consumer products. I scrolled to the bottom—catching my breath at last—to the long list of reference links about her.

“Are you looking me up?

I opened the door to two inches, keeping my foot planted solidly behind it. “It’s not blood?”

“Melted sugar with food coloring. I use Violet’s studio sometimes. We have an ongoing agreement.” She no longer held what had earlier looked like a thin dagger in her hand.

She was all unquestioning self-confidence, very New York City, in her forties. Fifties? Her long black braids—tipped with gold highlights, swung to her waist.

Now that I wasn’t running, I could see that she had that same celebrity quality my grandmother had had, the aura that would draw strangers to her in a room, because even from a glance they would know she was somebody.

“I didn’t realize Violet had a tenant.”

“I like to keep where I work a secret. Otherwise, some photographer inevitably shows up to scoop my new show. I’m only here for another week or so.”

I opened the door.

She looked me over. “You don’t look like Violet.”