“It’s a good quality,” I tell her. “Rare.”
The blush deepens, and she looks away, back to the files. But there’s a new tension in her shoulders, a heightened awareness.
I move to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room, filling two glasses with water. When I return, I place one silently beside her.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip. Our fingers brush as she takes the glass, and I resist the urge to take her hand in mine.
I step back, putting some distance between us. Now is not the time.
“Let’s keep working,” I say, more to myself than to her.
She nods, turning back to the files with a determination that matches my own.
Another hour passes. I’m still deep in financial records, tracking suspicious money movements around the time of the break-in, when I hear her gasp.
“Wait a minute,” she says, her voice suddenly tense.
I look up to find her staring at a spread of photos. All thedamaged artwork from the gallery. She’s placed them in a row, her fingers tracing connections I can’t see.
“What is it?”
“All of these pieces,” she says slowly, “Rudy tried to buy them last year.”
The name clicks instantly in my mental database. “Rudy Lewis. Beta art collector. Known for his aggressive acquisition strategies and vindictive responses to rejection.”
She nods, her face pale. “He was…a bit angry when the gallery outbid him. I remember because I was there when Helen told him we wouldn’t sell.” She shakes her head. “But it can’t be him.”
“Why not?” I ask, already reaching for my phone.
“Because...” She hesitates, and I can see her struggling with something. “Because Rudy has always been someone I looked up to. A beta who plays with alphas and wins. He’s respected in the art community.” Her voice drops. “He’s my friend. He stops by the gallery often just to chat with me.”
I watch her face, watching her see the pieces click in place and struggle with them.
“He even...” she continues, her voice barely a whisper now, “he even warned me about you. About the Sterling pack.”
That cements it for me. “Maybe his interest in you wasn’t always simply professional.”
She goes utterly still, her eyes wide with shock. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” I tell her carefully, “that a man who coveted artwork enough to threaten the gallery might also covet other things that aren’t for sale.”
Her face drains of color. “That’s... that can’t be right.”
But I can see in her eyes that she’s already putting it together. The visits to the gallery. The warnings about us. The personal nature of the attack, focused on her office, her exhibitions.
“I need to make a call,” I say, already dialing. When itconnects, I’m brief. “I need everything on Rudy Lewis. Financials, phone records, recent movements. Priority one.”
I hang up and find Zoe still standing there, arms wrapped around herself like she’s cold despite the warmth of the room.
“It might not be him,” I say, softening my tone. “We’ll know soon.”
She nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “I just... I thought he was my friend.”
The vulnerability in her voice, the way she’s trying so hard to be strong, makes something in my chest clench. Before I can think, before I can second-guess, I close the distance between us and just... pull her in. My arms come around her, one hand spreading wide across her back, the other settling at the nape of her neck, gently urging her head to rest against my chest.
She freezes for a second, a sharp, surprised intake of breath. Her body is stiff, resistant. I expect her to push me away, to tell me to back off.
But she doesn’t.
