“Cynical,” Mel sighs.

“I’ve lived too long in New Orleans,” Rose excuses herself.

“His ears look really small and tight to his head,” Mel observes. “Were they really like that?”

Rose looks more closely at the painting Mel indicates. “Must have been. Why else would I have painted them that way?”

The doorbell rings and they both twitch.

“I’ll get it,” Mel says, unfolding herself and slipping effortlessly over the back of the sofa.

Rose wants to stop her, to tell her to be careful, but she doesn’t. That seems too dramatic for a sunny suburban morning.

Mel is back. “FedEx,” she says, tossing Rose the envelope.

“A credit card and an ATM card. Marion sent them overnight express.”

“Wish I had a sister,” Mel says.

“I wish you did, too.” Rose opens the envelope. “There’s something else.” She upends the envelope. A plastic prescription bottle falls out. It’s wrapped in a Post-it Note. “Antidepressants,” Rose says, then reads the note: I called my doctor and asked for a prescription. Not a problem. They hand these things out like candy. I’m surprised they don’t have help-yourself bowls on pharmacy counters like they do dog treats at Petco.

“Will you take them?” Mel asks.

“I guess,” Rose concedes.

“Good. You’ll need that money,” Mel says seriously. “You can’t stay here anymore.”

Rose opens her mouth to protest, then closes it. Obviously she can’t stay here. They know where she is. They could try again.

“Why on earth would anybody bother to kill me?” she asks—not Mel, the powers that be.

“Drug deal gone bad, got crosswise to the mob, saw something you shouldn’t, heard something you shouldn’t, are an unwitting cog in some criminal enterprise.” Mel lists the usual suspects.

“The last is the only one even vaguely possible, and it’s a stretch,” Rose says.

They sit in silence for a few moments.

“What comes next?” Mel asks.

“That’s a good question.” Rose sighs. “There isn’t anything to grab on to. No suspect, clues, means, motive—the Sherlock Holmes stuff.”

“Now that you’ve fingered the perp—”

“Very funny.”

“Couldn’t you call the police? They’d have to take you seriously, wouldn’t they?”

Talk of calling the cops makes Rose uncomfortable. Breathing into the feeling, she tries to make sense of it. “They would believe I have a severed finger in my fridge,” Rose says slowly. “They would see a lot of paintings of a mysterious dark man with a knife in his teeth, and a bunch of paint-smeared boxes. They would know I am dangerous, that I escaped from a mental institution—”

“Memory Care Unit,” Mel corrects her.

“It will be the same to them,” Rose declares. “They will probably be nice family men. They’ll take me back to Longwood to make sure I’m taken care of.”