The Clairvoyants(81)

“Mary Rae was jealous of the girls,” she said. “She didn’t understand the photographs. William wanted her to be a part of the series, and she told him emphatically no. Silly, isn’t it?”

“It takes a certain trust to fall asleep with someone watching,” I said. I paused at the photograph of Alice, her bare leg entwined with the sheet. “I don’t think they’re faking.”

Anne closed the portfolio. “No, they aren’t.”

She went over the stove top and stood looking down at the Wellington. “I’m not so hungry,” she said.

She came around the island counter and placed a hand on the portfolio. “I gave him my sleeping pills. The girls were fine taking them. They all agreed. They thought it was a hoot. They loved the idea of it, loved their bodies. They loved William, too.”

Beyond the sliding glass doors the snow had covered the terrace. Anne’s hand on the portfolio trembled slightly.

“The more Mary Rae protested, the more he wanted her to pose.”

Had William given me Anne’s sleeping pills that night at Del’s?

“Don’t you think pills are a bit extreme?” I said.

“You know how it is with him,” she said. “His work is everything. And look how these turned out. They’re beautiful—you have to admit it. Exceptional. I set up a show for him—a solo exhibition at a gallery in Chelsea. It’s a well-known place, one that’s made the careers of many artists. He felt the pressure of that, I think. He claimed the camera knew when the girls weren’t fully asleep—and of course none of them could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.”

She took the portfolio in her arms and held it, and I had a strange feeling that she had gotten what she wanted from me. The meal, everything else was forgotten.

“Mary Rae did pose,” I said.

Anne shook her head. “No, she didn’t. She’s not among these prints.”

I held out my hands for the portfolio, and she seemed reluctant to give it to me. I took the sleeve of negatives out of the back. “See.”

Anne took the plastic sleeve with a shaking hand and held it to the light. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, this just doesn’t seem right.”

“You can see more clearly with a light table,” I said. “I have my loupe.”

“The studio,” she said, her voice thin and anxious. She told me to follow her.

We went back through the living room, grabbed our coats, and left by the front door. Anne led the way toward the dark garage, her bright scarf flapping in the darkness. Snow covered the driveway’s gravel, and the pretty bulbs that had come up would all be frozen now. Anne went up a set of stairs along the side of the building, and I waited below, unsure.

“There’s a rock down there,” she called to me. “It’s a piece of granite. Get the key out of the back.”

I looked at the base of the steps and discovered the rock. Beneath it was a hinged panel, like the one in the cigarette box. This was how the Milton girls all retrieved the key, letting themselves into this room. I took the key up the stairs to Anne, and she opened the door and flipped a switch. The snow that fell in the light that came on was fluttery—flakes that seemed to have lost conviction.

“This is his,” Anne said. She stepped into the studio and leaned against a wall, as if she were usually prohibited from entering the room. A mattress covered in a white sheet lay in the center of the floor. If I hadn’t seen the photographs the setup would have struck me as odd. The photographs felt far more organic—their play of shadows, the sensual poses, and that he’d managed to create them would have seemed like a feat if you didn’t know the girls were drugged, that he could move their lifeless limbs into any configuration he wanted. After the dimness of Anne’s house, the room felt overbright, dazzling. A worktable stood against a far wall, and on it was a light box.

“Over there,” I said, and I crossed the room to the table.

Anne stayed behind near the door. “I don’t usually come here,” she said.

I had no fear of William catching us, but Anne seemed worried he might.

“Do you want to see these or not?” I said.

Anne, usually a forceful presence, looked small and helpless in her flimsy scarf. “I don’t know if I want to see them,” she confessed.

I set the negatives on the surface of the light box. When I looked through the loupe I could enter each image, its shadow and light reversed, the depth of each scene three-dimensional, like a diorama.

“It’s definitely her,” I said over my shoulder. “I can see her necklace.”

Anne made a noise from across the room. It was a sound like a sob or a gasp. She stood against the wall, both hands over her mouth. I had given something away—and I was usually so careful. Anne stared at me and let her hands drop.

She crossed the room in a rush, and I handed her the loupe and she bent to look at the images.

“These weren’t taken here,” Anne said.

“The light is different, and the wall, and the wood floor,” I said. I hoped that if I talked about something else she would forget I’d mentioned the necklace.

“And these at the bottom,” I said. “Some field. Do you know where this is?”

Anne’s eyes were terrified and bright, her face chalky and lined in the studio lighting.