He regards her for a while, assessing danger. She’s still and solid and sullen. He flashes her a sandpaper grin.

“You’re back?” he says.

“Never left,” she says. “Never will leave. Never.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Ryan says. “The police . . .”

“The police won’t find me,” she says, looking at him. She looks paler, he notices. Slightly sick. There is a strange shimmer about her, as if he can see her bones superimposed upon her flesh, a luminous ghost-skeleton that moves as she moves. He blinks, trying to clear this odd vision from his eyes.

“What gives you the right?” she asks, softly. “What gives you the right to do this?”

His brow curdles. It is an insane question.

“I own this building,” he says slowly, reducing each word to inarguable finality.

“That is not an answer,” she says.

“What other answer is there?” Ryan blazes, sudden frustration firing him. He wants her to shut up, to do what she is told.

Winnie is silent for a few moments. She is standing at a place where a wall used to be. The wall is gone, only structural timbers remain. She stretches out a hand, strokes her fingers through the air that the wall used to occupy. He can see every bone in her hand set in angular contrast against the timbers and studs and beams. The stark intersecting lines are indescribably beautiful.

“I do not want to be what you want to make me,” she says.

Ryan says nothing, watches her stroke the ghost-wall. The moment of adoration passes, giving way to critical dissatisfaction. Her movements are crisp, clumsy, machinelike. Inelegant, he thinks. She needs curves, smooth clean curves that please the eye. He makes a mental note to work with the architect on some streamlined walls for the entrance.