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Jack clocks it in a heartbeat.

“No. Fuck off, Alice. Don’t even think about it.”

Her hand closes around the handle of her paint-stained mug. She takes it down and puts it on the counter.

“It’s mine.”

“I know.”

“I need to take it.”

“No.”

The word is so sharp.

Alice turns towards him. Jack looks at the mug rather than her.

“It lives here now. Leave it alone.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“Yeah, well I’ve changed my fucking mind.”

Her face crumples at his words, she tries to fan the tears away before they fall.

“Don’t make this harder, Jack. Please. If I leave it, I’ll have to decide whether I’m coming back for it.”

“You are coming back for it,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

She waits.

Jack doesn’t speak, just shrugs. I don’t speak, just stay silent. And Alice wraps the mug carefully in a tea towel.

The sketchbook goes into the case last.

Before she places it inside, I see the final page.

Three figures on a sofa, leaning together until the lines separating them disappear.

Beneath it, she’s given it a name.

The true triptych.

She closes the book before Jack can see, and I don’t tell him. I can’t.

Alice shuts the case. The fatality of the sound radiates through the whole apartment.

“We’ll come with you,” I say.

She shakes her head.

“We can help you prepare.”

“No.”