After the two left, Maggie carried the tools to the sink, turned on the faucet, and rubbed the clay off a pin tool.

The aunt was reshelving some of her pieces in a plastic-lined cabinet to make room for Kate’s and Maggie’s pots. She had two of these cabinets—damp boxes, she’d called them. Wren smiled over her shoulder. “Did you have fun?”

“Let’s just say I don’t foresee a future as a wealthy potter.”

“There’s no such thing as a wealthy potter.”

“You’re doing okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m staying afloat. But even in this poor part of New York, lakefront property costs a ton in taxes. My real bread and butter are the sculptures.”

Maggie glanced at the larger damp box. It was closed, but behind the front curtain of heavy plastic, there was a murky shadow. She’d noticed it before. A sculpture, it looked like. Why wasn’t it finished yet? Was Aunt Wren even working on it? Maggie never saw it out of the cabinet. She turned back to the sink to rinse the sponge and chamois. After squeezing them dry, she reached for the soiled bucket.

What a huge mess for one ridiculous little pot. “I didn’t think throwing on the wheel would be so hard.” In fact, when the arrangements for this visit had been made, she’d figured pottery was exactly what she’d be doing. No doubt her mother had expected that, too: Maggie would heal, strengthen, and move forward with the help of clay projects (and quiet and solitude). Granted, Maggie hadn’t thought about the assault—or Jane Cannon, for that matter—while the clay had wobbled and flailed, but that was only because keeping every lump from flying off the wheel had demanded so much concentration. “This isn’t exactly art therapy,” she muttered, shutting off the water.

The aunt grinned. “Is that what you thought you’d be getting here?”

Maggie gave her a dark look.

Wren sputtered a laugh. She finished shelving the pots, then carefully brought down the folds of heavy plastic.

“You know, Maggie, I didn’t invite you here just for your sake. I was thinking about myself, too.” She clipped the sides shut.

Maggie waited for an explanation.

But Wren only nodded and left.

She stared at the empty place where the aunt had stood, while the washed bucket dripped, sending water along her arm to her elbow and down to the concrete floor.

Later, in the quiet of the loft, Maggie sat on the floor and picked up her phone.