“Nadine,” Tilda said.

“Okay.” Nadine crossed her arms. “And Mrs. Lewis said no, she wanted paintings that looked like a kid had painted them, and she started talking about checkerboard skies and stars, and Ethan was here and he said, ‘That’s like the one we found in your basement,’ and she would not leave until we showed it to her.”

“Ethan said that,” Tilda said.

“Or maybe me.” Nadine squinted at the ceiling. “I’m not sure. Ask Ethan.”

“Like Ethan wouldn’t lie down on burning coals for you,” Tilda said. “So you went and got the painting…”

“And she offered me a hundred dollars for it and I said no,” Nadine said virtuously.

“And yet, the painting is not here,” Tilda said.

“She kept offering and I kept saying no and when she got to a thousand I caved,” Nadine said. “Now will somebody tell me why that was bad?”

“No.” Gwen sank down on the couch next to her granddaughter, looking much like Nadine was going to look in forty years, pale-eyed, graying, and gamine.

“Where’s your mom?” Tilda asked Nadine. She turned to Gwen. “Why wasn’t Eve watching the gallery?”

“She had a teachers’ meeting,” Gwen said. “Summer school. She’s aiding again. Look, this Lewis woman is not going to return it. And the more fuss we make, the more suspicious we look.”

“Suspicious about what?” Nadine said. “Nobody tells me anything.” She reached down and scooped Spot off the faded rug, and his tremors picked up again. “If you don’t tell me stuff, you can’t blame me when I screw up.”

She stuck her chin out at Tilda, defiant as she patted the dog, and Tilda thought, She’s right. She pulled out the ancient desk chair so it was facing Nadine and sat down, wincing as it creaked. “Okay, here it is.”

“No,” Gwen said. “She’s sixteen.”

“Yeah, and how old was I?” Tilda said. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t know.”