“What was taken?” I ask, even though I already have a sinking feeling in my gut.
He checks his notebook. “The centerpiece of the exhibition. A bronze and glass piece worth about half a mil. A few other items too, but that was the big one.”
The Sparne centerpiece. The one Tristan said she was practically glowing over yesterday when she explained it to the Davelles, her eyes lighting up with pride. The one she was personally responsible for.
I glance at her again, crouched over the wreckage, her gloved hands tenderly inspecting a damaged sculpture. My jaw tightens. This wasn’t just a robbery. It was a direct, calculated hit. On her.
“Any leads?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even though I can feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“Not yet,” Forbes says, his tone clipped. “Security footage was wiped. Alarm system was bypassed. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
I nod, filing the information away. “When did the alarm go off?”
“7:48 PM. Patrol arrived at 7:56. Perps were gone by then.”
7:48 PM. Probably right when Zoe was walking into The Anchor to meet us.
My stomach drops, then twists into something darker. Protective.Possessive.
“Forbes,” Dane’s voice interrupts, cutting through the noise like a blade. He’s back from his inspection, his expression grim. “Front door was staged. They came in through the service entrance. Security system was a joke. Motion sensors were disabled, cameras disconnected. These guys knew the layout.”
Forbes raises an eyebrow. “And you figured all this out in what, five minutes?”
“Three,” Dane replies, deadpan. I hope Forbes knows Dane isn’t trying to brag; he justisthat guy.
I leave him and Forbes to their exchange, my focus shifting to Zoe. She’s standing now, brushing dust off her skirt, her face carefully blank. Just like it was back at the Anchor. I’m beginning to realize it’s the face she uses when she doesn’t want to reveal just how much she’s feeling.
I cross the room to her, keeping my voice low. “How bad is it?”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on the damaged pieces. “The Sparne centerpiece is gone. So are three from the Mosseau collection. And a Rahtrov from the back gallery.” Her tone is professional, but her voice wavers just enough for me to catch the raw edge beneath it. “They didn’t just take them, Rett. They destroyed everything around them. Like they wanted to send a message.”
“What message?” I ask, my throat tight.
Her eyes finally meet mine, wide and troubled. “I don’t know.”
My chest tightens. “Were all the pieces from exhibitions you curated?”
She blinks, then nods slowly. “Yes. They left Helen’s collection untouched.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You think this was about me?”
Before I can respond, Tristan sidles up, his usual smirk replaced with something close to actual concern. “Detective says they’re wrapping up for the night. Wants everyone out so forensics can finish.”
“Go ahead,” Zoe says, her voice tight. “I need to check my office anyway.”
“I’m coming with you,” I say immediately.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust if I walk ten feet on my own, Rett.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Humor me.”
Her office is a disaster. Drawers pulled out, paperseverywhere, her desk a mess of chaos. She freezes in the doorway, and I can feel her distress spike, sharp and sour like a punch to the gut.
“They went through my desk,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
I place a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “Don’t touch anything yet. Let me check the room first.”
It’s clear in seconds that we’re alone, but I take my time, triple-checking every corner. I don’t care if it’s overkill; the thought of her being in danger makes my alpha want to roar.
When I finally step aside, she moves to the desk. “They took my laptop,” she says tightly. “And the backup drive.” She pauses, her face paling. “They have my contact list. It has home addresses. Artists, donors?—”
