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subjects. My mother says I’m scary.”
    â€œMother knows best.”
    Although she said the words lightly, he frowned. “Do I frighten you, Jane?”
    â€œMe? The original Bride of Frankenstein? Hardly.”
    â€œI hate when you talk about yourself that way. You’re beautiful. A beautiful person.” Ted motioned the dressing room. “Now her, I feel sorry for.”
    â€œAnne? Why?”
    â€œNot just her. Most of your subjects. Their view of life is so narrow.” His expression altered subtly. “Women like her, they don’t feel anything authentically. They don’t know what real pain is, so they make some up.”
    The simmering anger behind his words caught her off guard. “Is that so bad? Who are they hurting besides themselves?”
    â€œYou tell me. Would you give away your pain to become like her?”
    Anne emerged from the dressing room before Jane could answer, clothes artfully arranged, face done, hair coifed. “That’s much better, don’t you think?”
    â€œYou look gorgeous,” Jane said.
    She beamed and turned expectantly toward Ted.
    Instead of offering a compliment, he turned away. “I’ll get the appointment book.”
    After he’d made the appointments, Jane showed the woman out, thanking her again, assuring her that the session had been a huge success.
    When she returned to the studio, Ted was waiting where she had left him, expression strange.
    â€œIs something wrong?”
    â€œShe was looking for a compliment,” he said. “Women like her always are.”
    â€œWould it have hurt you to give her one?”
    â€œIt would have been a lie.”
    â€œYou don’t find her beautiful?”
    â€œNo,” he said flatly, “I don’t.”
    â€œThen you’re probably the only man in Dallas who doesn’t.”
    He looked at her, his expression somewhat ferocious. “She can’t see beyond the surface. All I see is inside. And what I see in her is ugly.”
    Jane didn’t know quite how to respond. His feelings, their depth, surprised her.
    â€œIf you give me the go-ahead,” he said suddenly, “I can have the invitations to your opening party in the mail by noon tomorrow.”
    She glanced at her watch, relieved he had changed the direction of their conversation. “I’m meeting Dave at the Arts Café for coffee. I’ll do it when I get back.”
    â€œIn the meantime I’ll finish cataloging the pieces for the show.”
    Jane watched him walk away, an unsettled feeling in the pit of her gut. She realized she knew little about his personal life. His friends, whether he dated, how he spent his leisure time. Until today, he had never mentioned family.
    Until today, she hadn’t a clue what made him tick. Not really.
    Weird, she thought. That they could have worked together for more than a year and still she knew so little about him. How could that be? Because he was secretive? Or because she had shown so little interest?

SIX
    Monday, October 20, 2003
4:00 p.m.
    J ane stepped out into the gray, chilly day. She tipped her face to the sky and drew in a deep, invigorating breath. She loved her work, loved her studio, but after having been cooped up under the artificial lights and breathing recirculated, processed air all day, it felt fabulous to be outside—gray and cold though it was.
    She’d chosen to live and work in the area of the city called Deep Ellum. An alternative neighborhood located east of downtown, deep on Elm Street, its name originated from the area’s original residents’ pronunciation of Elm. Known for its nightlife, it catered to the young, the misfits and freaks, artists, musicians or anyone who didn’t quite fit into Dallas’s image-conscious, monied culture.
    Which was what Jane loved about it.
    She felt at home here.
    Jane began to walk, briskly, greeting those she recognized—fellow artists,