I dreamed again of the museum, its exhibition halls empty, lit only by the emergency lights. Somewhere Grace was alone and in danger, and I had to find her.

I ran through a room filled with spinning paper curls cut from newspaper that caught in my hair, another with paintings of the houses in our neighborhood, a dozen almost exactly the same, each with a different title: Domestic Abuse no. 1 or Bankruptcy Study 33 or just Death (violent) 5—a house that looked like Lena’s. But I hurried past.

Finally I entered the room with a modern take on Winged Victory again, a contemporary woman in jeans and a loose tunic wrapped in folds around her torso. Her wings weren’t marble but onyx, polished to catch the meager light, with long feathers angled sharply inward. This wasn’t Nike, goddess of victory, resolute despite the strong winds buffeting her. This was a grave marker, the angel of death.

I faltered. At her shoulders and neck, the stone was unfinished, rough and raw. There was a plaque at her base, one I’d never seen before, and I took a step forward, squinting to make out the engraving. Two words—a name? But it was smudged with something dark. I reached out to wipe it clean, and then I heard someone cry out.

I wheeled around. Michael stood behind me with an expression I’d never seen on him before. He smirked, just like Brady, and then he gave me a slow wink. “I’ll get the baby,” he said, and disappeared.

I woke with my heart pounding, every muscle tensed to the point of pain.

Someone was whimpering. Michael. His forehead furrowed, his hands pushing the bedclothes away, his head shaking: no no no. I reached out for his arm, to wake him, to reassure him and myself as well, to bring back my husband with his kind eyes and his unflappable calm. But when my fingers touched his skin, he shuddered and swung his arm out, catching me right in the face and knocking me back. Shocked, I slid off the bed with a cry, and he sat up, gasping. “What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You were dreaming.” Speaking felt strange, like I’d had a shot of Novocain, and I blinked back the tears in my eyes.

But he turned on the light, squinting at me. “Kacy?”

“I’m fine.” My voice sounded funny too, but I couldn’t tell if it was the moisture in my throat or the ringing in my ears.

“You’re hurt.” But he didn’t sound sure; he didn’t recommend an aspirin or an ice pack. He just sat there, bolt upright, his hair mussed and his eyes glassy.

“Everything’s okay. Just go back to sleep,” I said.

And like a marionette with its strings cut, he collapsed, asleep.