“You delivered the message?”

“I left the tile at the post because your father said you’d recognize it. I mailed the invitation. Etta must have seen me earlier at Alma’s shop.”

The room suddenly felt smaller. Owen pictured Etta bending at the red mailbox. Had she seen the name on the card? Had she known what the blue and yellow brushstroke meant? Or had she simply seen enough to panic?

At the gym door, the retired bus driver stepped forward. “We’re coming with you,” he said. “Not to shout. To stand where we once stood.”

CHAPTER FIVE: THE CLOSED WALL

At seven fifteen, the bathhouse doors were locked. Light shone through the high windows, and the scrape of ladders came from inside. Etta’s car stood at the curb, immaculate except for ash on one sleeve of the raincoat lying across the passenger seat. Owen was tempted to look closer, but Mara touched his elbow.

“There are fifteen of us,” she whispered. “Don’t give them a reason to say we’re here to cause trouble.”

They knocked. Iris appeared after several minutes. She looked beyond Owen at the cluster of people carrying worn photographs and small objects, then kept her hand on the door.

“The wall is closed,” she said.

“We need ten minutes,” Owen answered. “Some people who made the original work want to show the volunteers what is being covered.”

“They can contact the committee.”

“The committee hasn’t answered their letters.”

Iris’s expression changed. “You don’t understand the pressure we’re under. We promised the mayor a finished space. Donors are bringing guests. Everything has been printed.”

“Then let’s correct the program before they arrive.”

Etta appeared behind Iris, her hair pinned carefully, a paint-stained apron over a blue blouse. She looked older than Owen had ever seen her. Her eyes moved across the gathering until they stopped on Safiya’s ceramic case.

“You should go home,” Etta said.

“I will,” Owen replied. “But first I need to ask why my mailbox burned.”

A silence fell. Etta didn’t deny having been near it. She simply tightened her grip on the apron strings. “I don’t know what happened there.”

Owen felt anger rise, but he forced himself to stay with what he knew. “I saw you beside the box. Firefighters are investigating. We can talk to them separately. Right now, these people deserve to see the wall.”

From inside, someone called, “Etta, should we start the primer?”

“Not yet,” Owen said loudly enough to reach the painter. “There are original handprints beneath it.”

The volunteer stepped into view, holding a roller. He looked from Etta to the people outside. Teresa raised her chipped bowl and said, “I painted that bowl in 1999. It’s below the woman’s left foot. Please don’t roll over it before I can show you.”