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The doors close.

I am wedged between them.

No handle I can reach. No phone. No construction truck to aim for.

The other car pulls out ahead of us.

I try to remember whether I told André my last name.

I don’t think I did.

When the limestone wall appears, I recognize it.

“This is about the collection?”

The gates open.

Neither man answers.

“I have an appointment in the morning.”

The car continues up the drive.

It is a ridiculous thing to say. I hear that as soon as it leaves my mouth. As though they have fetched me early because parking becomes difficult after nine.

Inside, they take me past the gallery corridor and up two flights of stairs.

A door stands open at the top.

Marta’s assistant sits against the wall with a man beside him. He looks at me, then at my dress, then at the hands holding my arms.

His fingers close around the chair’s armrests.

The man behind the desk looks up.

“Where is Mr. Adams?”

“I don’t know.”

“You told us he worked with you.”

I look at Marta’s assistant.

He looks down.

The man behind the desk points to the empty chair.

“Sit.”

I stay where I am.

The hands on my arms tighten.

I sit.

He waits until I’m looking at him.

“You’re not going to like what happens if I have to ask twice.”