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FIFTY-FOUR

GRACE AND LINCOLN BARK at each other in the back seat, something about the PlayStation. Ordinarily, I’d be on them about getting along, about being half as nice to each other as they are to every other person in the world, but right now I feel about as stable as a jug of nitroglycerin next to an open flame.

I pull into the garage and kill the engine. “Wait here,” I say. “Wait in the car a minute.”

“Why do we have to wait —”

“Because I told you to wait in the car, Grace Catherine.” I slam the door.

I try to act composed, not race like a madwoman into the house from the garage. It isn’t easy. Once inside, I rush to the front of the house, the foyer, and mentally prepare myself as I turn to look at the wall.

It’s just a plain white wall, blank except for the Picasso print centered in the middle. A plain white wall — but with a nice shiny fresh coat of paint.

I sink to the floor, a burn rippling through my chest, feeling like up has suddenly become down and down is now up.

David painted over the words. He hid this whole incident from me and covered up the message.

A message from someone who knows who he really is, a category of people that apparently does not include me.

My husband has been lying to me. All these years, my husband has been lying to me.