"Never mind," I muttered, rolling up the painting. This wasn't something ordinary for the layman to understand. "Why is Gertrude with you?"

"Gertrude?" Picasso asked, confusion appearing on his face. "What Gertrude?"

"Gertrude, the little girl that was here. Agnes sister."

"As I have said to you before, I do not know Agnes and there's no Gertrude. The only little girl here is my daughter— hold on, did she tell you her name is Gertrude?"

I raised my eyebrows at him and said nothing.

He ...