She blinked, startled. “Ma’am?”
“Who painted my daughter?”
Her face shifted. “This is a student exhibition.”
“My daughter died three years ago,” I said, loud enough for nearby people to turn. “That is her face. That is her birthmark. Why does that plaque say self-portrait?”
The woman drew a careful breath.
“I’m Andrea, the coordinator. The artist is here somewhere.”
“Then take me to her.”
Tracy caught my wrist. “Tanya, slow down.”
“No.” I pulled free. “Nova painted Lily on that wall, and I need to know why.”
Andrea’s expression changed slightly. “You know Nova?”
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