I returned at 3:34 AM. I looked in the mirror. The foundation had washed away, revealing the dark spots below the cheek bone. They make me look hollow, like an anorexic. A fat anorexic.

I checked my mail. (The pile on the left of the foyer table. My had sorted it. Good.) A letter from the Manhattan Conservatory, my lesson schedule: Charles, Erik, Sergei, all previous students, and Lili White, a first year. I'll see if she proves qualified.

And two pieces of mail addressed to Mara Feinschneider. I changed my name three years ago; they should know better. That goes double for the Carnegie Arts Group. They certainly know that I no longer perform. The CAG committee members talk about me enough. At least it helps me sort my mail faster. I file all the misaddressed mail unopened. (Bottom drawer of the foyer table.)

I hung my coat. There was something in My's left coat pocket. (Not the right where he keeps his gloves.) A letter. It was 3:38. I took the letter from the envelope and opened it, bottom flap first.

Signed "Alexa Ovet." That handwriting, broad and flowing . . . I could tell she was a slut.

"Dear Jason Argos." Not My. Good.

I checked the envelope. Addressed to My, typed. The envelope, a faint blue, I'd seen it before. The letter was worn, read, and it was sitting in My's pocket.

The bedroom door creaked. My was coming.

I closed the letter, top flap first, placed it in the envelope and back in My's coat.

Mara: My, you're up.

Jason Argos. A pseudonym?

Myron: Hey. How was your trip?

How long has this gone on?

Mara: Fine. You're up?

I shouldn't have let him stay out late.

Myron: Getting a glass of water.

I shouldn't have let him hang out with his friends.

Mara: Take a bottled water.

How could he do this to me?

Myron: Right.

Alexa Ovet.

Mara: Don't forget to recycle.

I'm going to find her.

Myron: Thanks, Mara. Coming to bed?

I'm going to kill her.

I woke up at 7:59 AM. My and the letter were already gone.

He wore his black belt, black pants. Good.