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Show 120 "Home? Home, Hunt?" Leah sang the question with her hands to her mouth, her eyes shut. "Home." He gave the syllable all the weight of fact. "I'll be back in a minute," Leah said, and the two men saw her move off to make her own visit to her husband's studio. However long the silence, Lane Pierson broke it with, "Well - better check the troops." He rose and pushed his hand out. "Good to meet you," he said. "Yes," Hunt said. His eyes were on the window of his studio. He tried, in earnest afterthought, to smile and take the hand, but when he turned, the man was gone, cutting across the backyards to his home. Hunt bowed his head, pinching his eyes. He filled the scene in that was happening. Leah was there, in his studio. She was standing rigid, staring, seeing on separate easels the three paintings that he was working on. Tears were probably running down her cheeks. She would call them "tears of disbelief." He knew. He knew the images that would be confronting her, the three 3 x 4 nearly-finished canvases. He knew Leah would shut her eyes, trying to make the images vanish, but in opening them, would only find - in every line, shading, detail -- confirmation. In the closest canvas would be Paula Schoefield, seen through her north upstairs window, standing, nude, in a pose of self-examination, cupping her breasts in front of a mirror. In the next, again windowed, Lane Pierson would confront her, standing menacingly, his mouth twisted, one hand clamped around his wife, Andi's hair; her head, the skin splotchy and |