“Huge!” he interrupted. “So much so I actually drove all the way to New York just to see your work firsthand, and I can honestly tell you it was like no exhibit I’ve attended before, which is saying something, you know, since that’s my gig, covering this sort of thing. But what struck me about your show was how, well, emotional it was. I can’t remember ever—ever—standing in a gallery where so many people were reduced to tears. The whole thing—electric! And difficult—but necessary. Truly. In particular, I want to focus on three pieces, what I consider, if you don’t mind my saying so, the real masterpieces of the collection.” He tugged a folder out of the briefcase, stepped to the side to find a clear spot on the table on which to open it, and tripped on the chair next to him. In his scramble to right himself, he dropped the folder.

Three large photographs spilled across the floor.

Mom stooped to gather them. Eyes wide and unblinking, she slowly rose. The photographs trembled in her hands.

The top one captured in blown-up detail the culminating sculpture of Wren’s collection. Maggie recognized the hollowed heads and folded slabs of clay and the four subjects, threatened, threatening, blind, free.

“Holy crap. I’m sorry about that.” One hand gripping his red hair, the journalist muttered some self-castigation under his breath and, glancing apologetically at Mom, made to relieve her of the photographs.

She clung to them and stepped back. A whimper escaped her. She didn’t seem to notice she was crying—didn’t seem to notice anything besides the photographs, not Maggie’s hand, resting on her shoulder, not the journalist, flustered and apologetic. Mom shakily went through the photos, tears falling unchecked.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Wren halted in the kitchen doorway. “Michael Brady?”

The journalist’s beleaguered expression turned purely confounded. He stared at the aunt, gaped at Mom, and glanced back at Wren with some fast blinking.

Mom shuddered but didn’t turn at the sound of Wren’s voice.

“That’s my sister,” the aunt explained, striding into the kitchen. “I apologize. Forgot all about the interview and—” Abreast of Mom, she cut off her own words with a squeak and moved quickly, hands out, as if to seize the photographs. But Mom pressed them against her chest and released a sob. “Jesus Christ, Min, I’m sorry.” Then, with a ferocious glare at the hapless journalist, she barked, “I wish you hadn’t shared those.” Wren didn’t seem to know where to turn or what to do. “This is harrowing stuff for my sister.”

He flinched. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know. I thought she was you…”