“So where’s your bathroom?”

“Upstairs.”

“Want to show me?”

“Sure.”

“Bring the paint,” the visitor said. “And the screwdriver. ”

Scimeca went back to the kitchen and picked up the can.

“Do we need the stirring stick too?” she called.

The visitor hesitated. New procedure, needs a new technique.

“Yes, bring the stirring stick.”

The stick was about twelve inches long, and Scimeca clasped it together with the screwdriver in her left hand. Picked up the can by the handle with her right.

“This way,” she said.

She led the way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Across the upstairs hallway and into her bedroom. Across the bedroom and into the bathroom.

“This is it,” she said.

The visitor looked it over, and felt like an expert on bathrooms. This one was the fifth, after all. It was medium-budget, probably. A little old-fashioned. But it suited the age of the house. A fancy marble confection would have looked wrong.

“Put the stuff down on the floor, OK?”

Scimeca bent and put the can down. The metal made a faint liquid clonk as it hit the tile. She folded the wire handle down and balanced the screwdriver and the stick across the lid. The visitor came out with a folded garbage sack, black plastic, from a coat pocket. Shook it out and held it open.

“I need you to put your clothes in here.”

HE GOT OUT of the car, with the mug in his hand. Walked around the hood and into the driveway. Up the looping path. Up the porch steps. He juggled the mug into the other hand, ready to ring the bell. Then he paused. It was very quiet inside. No piano music. Was that good or bad? She was kind of obsessive, always playing the same thing over and over again. Probably didn’t like being interrupted in the middle of it. But the fact that she wasn’t playing might mean she was doing something else important. Maybe taking a nap. The Bureau guy said she got up at six. Maybe she took a siesta in the afternoon. Maybe she was reading a book. Whatever she was doing, she probably wasn’t just sitting there hoping he’d come to her door. She hadn’t shown any inclinations along those lines before.

He stood there, indecisive, his hand held out a foot away from her bell. Then he dropped it to his side and turned around and went back down the steps to the path. Back down the path to the driveway. Back around the hood of his car. He got in and leaned over and stood the mug upright in the passenger footwell.

SCIMECA LOOKED CONFUSED.

“What clothes?” she asked.

“The clothes you’re wearing,” the visitor said.

Scimeca nodded, vaguely.

“OK,” she said.

“I’m not happy with the smile, Rita,” the visitor said. “It’s slipping a little.”

“Sorry.”

“Check it out in the mirror, tell me if that’s a happy face.”

Scimeca turned to the mirror. Gazed for a second and started working on the muscles in her face, one by one. The visitor watched her reflection.

“Make it a big one. Real cheerful, OK?”

Scimeca turned back.

“How’s this?” she said, smiling as wide as she could.

“Very good,” the visitor said. “You want to make me happy, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So put your clothes in the bag.”

Scimeca took off her sweater. It was a heavy knit item with a tight neck. She hauled the hem up and stretched it over her head. Shook it right side out and leaned over and dropped it in the bag. Second layer was a flannel blouse, washed so many times it was soft and shapeless. She unbuttoned it all the way down and pulled the tails out of the waistband of her jeans. Shrugged it off and dropped it in the bag.

“Now I’m cold,” she said.

She unbuttoned the jeans and undid the zip and pushed them down her legs. Kicked off her shoes and stepped out of the jeans. Rolled the shoes and the jeans together and put them in the bag. Peeled off her socks and shook them out and threw them in, one at a time.

“Hurry up, Rita,” the visitor said.

Scimeca nodded and put her hands behind her back and unhooked her bra. Pulled it off and tossed it in the bag. Slipped her panties down and stepped out of them. Crushed them into a ball and threw them into the bag. The visitor closed the neck of the bag and dropped it on the floor. Scimeca stood there, naked, waiting.

“Run the bath,” the visitor said. “Make it warm, since you’re cold.”

Scimeca bent down and put the stopper in the drain. It was a simple rubber item, secured by a chain. She opened the faucets, three-quarters hot and one-quarter cold.

“Open the paint,” the visitor said.

Scimeca squatted down and picked up the screwdriver. Worked the tip into the crack and levered. Rotated the can under the screwdriver, once, twice, until the lid sucked free.

“Be careful. I don’t want any mess.”

Scimeca laid the lid gently on the tile. Looked up, expectant.

“Pour the paint in the tub.”

She picked up the can, both hands. It was wide, not easy to hold. She clamped it between her palms and carried it to the tub. Twisted from the waist and tipped it over. The paint was thick. It smelled of ammonia. It ran slowly over the lip of the can and poured into the water. The swirl from the faucets caught it. It eddied into a spiral pattern and sank like a weight. The water started dissolving the edges of the spiral and thin green color drifted through the tub like clouds. She held the can upside down until the thick stream thinned, and then stopped.

“Careful,” the visitor said. “Now put the can down. And don’t make a mess.”

She turned the can the right way up and squatted again and placed it gently on the tile next to the lid. It made a hollow, empty sound, damped slightly by the residue coating the metal.

“Now get the stirring stick. Mix it up.”

She picked up the stick and knelt at the edge of the tub. Worked the stick into the thick sunken mass and stirred.

“It’s mixing,” she said.

The visitor nodded. “That’s why you bought latex.”

The color changed as the paint dissolved. It went from dark olive to the color of grass growing in a damp grove. It thinned, all the way down to the consistency of milk. The visitor watched carefully. It was OK. Not as dramatic as the real thing, but it was dramatic enough to be using paint at all, in the circumstances.

“OK, that’ll do. Put the stick in the can. No mess.”

Scimeca pulled the stick out of the green water and shook it carefully. Reached back and stood it upright in the empty can.

“And the screwdriver.”

She stood the screwdriver next to the stick.

“Put the lid back on.”

She picked the lid up by the edge and laid it across the top of the can. It canted up at a shallow angle, because the stirring stick was too tall to let it go all the way down.

“You can turn the faucets off now.”

She turned back to the tub and shut off the water. The level was up to within six inches of the rim.

“Where did you store your carton?”

“In the basement,” she said. “But they took it away.”

The visitor nodded. "I know. But can you remember exactly where it was?”

Scimeca nodded in turn.

“It was there for a long time,” she said.

“I want you to put the can down there,” the visitor said. “Right where the carton was. Can you do that?”

Scimeca nodded.

“Yes, I can do that,” she said.

She raised the metal hoop. Eased it up alongside the unsteady lid. Carried the can out in front of her, one hand on the handle, the other palm down against the lid, securing it. She went down the stairs and through the hallway and down to the garage and through to the basement. Stood for a second with her feet on the cold concrete floor, trying to get it exactly right. Then she stepped to her left and placed the can on the floor, in the center of the space the carton had occupied.