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said.
    “What?”
    “Torment her.”
    I petted the towel.
    Alice smoothed out the dabs of foundation. “With the stress of organizing these shows, Julia’s temper is short enough without you aggravating her.”
    “That’s easy for you to say. She never hits you.”
    “She only hits you because you purposely make her angry. I know things get mixed up in your head and sometimes you get confused and think things have happened that didn’t, but you still have to take responsibility for what you do.” She applied another drop. “You know, if you’d just apologize, she might forgive you.”
    An apology was no cure for rabies.
    Alice examined her work. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Well, it’s important that you look nice. Especially if they take pictures.”
    “I still appreciate it.”
    She began packing everything away. “Oh, I thought of a name for the painting.”
    “Tell me.”
    “The Hand of God.” Her smile wilted. “You don’t like it?” Alice flicked her bangs out of her eyes. “I told you I wasn’t very good at this.”
    “No, no. It’s fine. It’s a very good name.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    Her smile returned. “Then you’re going to call it that? I mean, when they put it up at the gallery or in the paper?”
    “Sure.” I had no intentions of letting anyone see The Kiss . I would protect it. The boy, whose name I couldn’t remember, deserved more. But the canvas was all I had to give.
    Alice knocked her hand into the makeup bag, and the contents spilled out over the counter. A few things fell off onto the floor.
    “Dang it. I’m such a butterfingers.”
    I laughed.
    “It’s not funny.”
    “No, it’s just hearing you say that. I didn’t think anyone under the age of sixty used that term anymore.”
    She rolled her eyes at me.
    I picked up a lipstick, a compact, and…
    A locket.
    The heart was woven out of strands of cheap silver. It was the kind of jewelry found in discount stores, not the high-dollar fashion boutiques my sisters shopped at.
    I opened it. The picture of me was barely more than a ghost. I must have been seven or eight? There was just enough color to give my cheeks a pink glow, and the dark suit a shadow of blue.
    “When was this taken?”
    Alice sorted the eye shadows that had broken out of their containers. “What?”
    “This? I don’t remember it.”
    “What are you…” Alice’s eyes widened. Her gaze went from the locket in my hand to me. “That’s mine.” She snatched it away and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she scraped the makeup she’d been sorting off the counter and into the bag.
    “What did I say?”
    “Nothing.” She fought with the zipper.
    “Alice?”
    “Nothing Paris, just drop it.” She slammed the door shut behind her.
    ********
    The Bransford estate, also known as the Killigans, Marshals, Potts, and located on the state border, on the coast, near downtown, or in a picturesque mountain setting, was a bloated brick monolith on a painted green lawn.
    Hedges were blocks, and rose bushes were beach balls. There was a pool—there was always a pool at houses like this—and a fountain or a pond.
    The Bransfords had both.
    The water garden crammed into the landscape was as natural looking as a temporary tattoo and the fountain a blight in the center of the driveway.
    Limos, Beamers, Mercedes, and Jaguars made a line in front of the house. There were more than I expected.
    Julia plucked a mirror from her purse, checked her makeup and fluffed her bangs. “You’d think for three hundred dollars, they could get my hair right.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with your hair.” Herds of people shuffled up the steps.
    “Why Paris.” She tossed me a smile. “Was that a compliment?”
    A woman in a fur coat and a man only as tall as her shoulder walked by the window. Julia pinched my arm. “Did you hear me?”
    “Yes. It was a compliment.”
    “Not that, what I said about Greg Bransford,