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The mother didn’t respond, focused on the girl, cradling her head and daubing at the cut with a wet paper towel. Mr. BlackBerry, however, turned to Susan with open irritation. “An ambulance?” he said. “No, it’s nothing. She’ll be fine.”

It didn’t look like nothing to Susan, but it was also none of her business.

“Is she OK?” asked Emma, craning around in her stroller seat, as Susan wheeled her out the gates of the playground.

“Yes, doll,” said Susan. “Of course.”

Susan cast her own glance backward at the frightened girl, who was rising unsteadily, reddish streaks caked to her forehead. She thought of the awful dream she’d had the other night: The stroller slamming into the ground and bursting like a bomb, sending fountains of blood spraying into the sky. She thought of the rusty smudge on the back of the photograph; she thought of poor Catastrophe the cat, starving and mad in the bonus room, white spit and pink blood foaming the corners of his mouth.

“Alex? Hey.”

They had just returned home, and Susan answered her iPhone on the first ring. It was 4:45 p.m.

“Hey, babe. How are you?”

“I called this morning. Did you get my message?”

“What? Yeah. Oh — I mean, I think so. This morning?”

Alex’s voice carried an undertone, a subtle tightness, indicating to Susan that he was looking at his computer while they talked. Vic was shouting orders to someone in the background.

“You sound busy.”

“Susan, I’m sorry about this, but I can’t come home tonight.”

“Oh.” Susan felt a queer twisting in her gut. She cradled the phone under her ear while she sat Emma down to tug off her shoes.

“It’s this stupid watch. It took us all morning to find a new face and get it affixed properly. Now we still have to shoot the thing, along with the sport watch, the Rolex, the one that was actually scheduled for today. It’s gonna be hours.”

“How many hours?” Susan struggled to control her voice.

“I really have no idea, babe.”

“Oh.” Susan paused. How understanding was she supposed to be here? “So, you know, Marni didn’t come in today.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I told you on the message.”

“Hold on.” He yelled to someone in the room with him, probably Vic: “Two seconds, OK? One second?” Then he was on the phone again. “That sucks. I’m sorry about this. We really have to nail this gig. You know that, right?”

Exactly how bad was Alex’s business these days, Susan wondered. She felt a dark pocket of despair open in her stomach: they’d just blown all this money on the move, increased their rent … what if Alex’s business was about to crumble? Then what? You can always go back to Legal Aid, pick up law-temp work, document review … something.…

“Listen, Sue, I gotta go.”

“Sure, sure.”

She hung up, lowered the phone, and saw her daughter staring at her, her eyes quivering saucers of grief.

“Honey?”

Emma burst into tears. “I wanted to talk to daddy!”

Three and a half hours later, with Emma sleeping soundly, Susan fixed herself an easy dinner of pasta and a glass of shiraz. Then she washed the dishes, cleared the table, and dug the picture of Jessica and Jack out of the junk drawer. She walked straight into the bonus room, set up her easel, and tacked the photograph in the lower-right-hand corner of a fresh canvas. The cat-pee stink was gone, thank God, but Susan left the window open anyway, allowing the mild nighttime chill of early fall to breathe into the room. There were two electrical outlets, and in one Susan plugged the baby monitor so she could hear if Emma cried; in the other she plugged her laptop, so she could turn on iTunes and listen to Bach’s Mass in B Minor, always her favorite music to paint to.

Susan arranged her pleasingly old-fashioned wooden palette, her turpentine, her cleaning rags, her wineglass, and the bottle of Shiraz.

“All right,” Susan said to the photograph of Jessica Spender. “Shall we?”

Slowly at first, she painted. Her eyes darted back and forth between the photograph and her canvas as she scumbled in the thin oval of Jessica Spender’s face, the high angles of her cheekbones, two dark recesses for the eyes, the confident angle of the hairline. Soon Susan was working faster, shedding her initial hesitance, losing herself in the work, drawing in details with the tip of a brush. She sang along with the music, moving her brush confidently, slashing and darting, feeling a kind of vigorous animal power flowing through her as she attacked the canvas.

Occasionally, Susan danced backward to survey her work, grunted approvingly, took a gulp of her wine, and dove back in. I’m good at this, she thought, jabbing her brush at the portrait and then yelping aloud. “I’m fucking great!”

Burning hot, sweating buckets, Susan stripped down to her bra and underwear, kept painting, faster and faster, her eyes locked on Jessica’s eyes, hypnotized by the woman she was bringing to life on canvas. She disappeared into the work, edging in the dark shapes, thickening her layers, massaging the colors, feeling the power of each small act of creation. The Mass crescendoed, the Credo, and Susan moaned with exultation, lost to the world.

When she heard the knock at the door, her hands froze. She looked around wildly, heaving breath, scared and guilty like an animal caught feasting on something forbidden. Susan shut off the music, unplugged the baby monitor from the wall, and slipped out of the bonus room, carefully pulling the door shut behind her.

Alex was at the front door. “I’m so sorry. I forgot my keys,” he said, then paused. “Honey? Are you OK?”

“Why?” she asked. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You’re naked. You’re covered in paint. That is paint, right?”

Susan looked down. She was streaked and splattered, bright jagged lines of reds and blacks crisscrossing her chest and torso.

“Also, it’s two in the morning.”

“What?”

Two? That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t been in that little room for five hours, had she? “I was just doing some painting, is all. I got really into it.” Susan’s own voice sounded distant and unnatural. She felt exhausted; her muscles ached and her head swam. “Really? It’s two o’clock in the morning?”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry I’m so late,” Alex said. “After the shoot was finally over, I ran into Anton on the way to the subway, and I bought him a beer. He and Blondie are on the outs again, apparently.”

Susan nodded, blinked. How had it gotten to be two o’clock?

She was so tired she could barely make it up the stairs. But once she had brushed her teeth and peed and collapsed into bed, Susan couldn’t sleep. Alex, of course, passed out easily and immediately, and she lay watching him for half an hour before slipping out from under the sheets. She considered taking an Ambien but decided it was too close to morning, and she was already pretty drunk on the wine. She went to the bathroom, peed again, and then washed her face and hands, watching as flecks of paint spiraled down the drain. On her way back to bed, she lifted Alex’s jeans from where he’d shed them onto the bedroom floor and was halfway to the laundry hamper when she noticed a curious square bulge in the pocket. Susan hooked two fingers into the pocket and came out with a matchbook from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

Two in the morning, Susan thought immediately, and looked over at him in his easy slumber. Hotel matches?

It took her about five seconds to remember that the girl they called Blondie, the on-again-off-again girlfriend of Alex’s college friend Anton, worked at the Mandarin Oriental as a concierge. She’d occasionally gotten them theater tickets, before they had Emma and could still occasionally leave the house at night. A warm wash of relief flooded Susan — Alex had used Anton’s matches, and Anton had gotten them from Blondie, who worked at the Mandarin. Hotel matches, indeed. Moping around like the wife in a country-western song …