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back, alright?”
“I’m not angry at you,” he said, looking at her as if he was amazed she could be so thick. He snatched his jacket from where it floated on the surface of the pond. His jaw pulsed as he continued to wash blood from his clothes.
She understood finally. “I tripped too, you know, and I don’t even have those stupid slippery shoes you have on.”
He nodded sullenly before wringing out his jacket.
May noticed a red scratch on his neck. “You got hurt. There, on your neck,” she said, drawing her hand out of the water and pointing.
“It’s nothing—just a scratch,” he said.
“What was that painting?” asked Sheila. Only her head shone above the surface of the water. “My mother’s had it for ages, but I don’t know the name of it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at it again.”
May shook her head. “I can’t remember.” She asked Carlisle, “Do you know?”
He didn’t look up from what he was doing. “I saw it once. It’s by a gentleman named Goya.”
“Do you remember what it’s called?” asked May.
“The Monster, I believe,” he said as he wrung out his vest.
“Funny. I thought it had a