He raises an eyebrow. “At this hour?Alone?”
“I’ve got the key code,” I say. “And I won’t stay long. Promise. I just need it to feel perfect before the opening.”
Robbie studies me for a second, then nods. “Text me when you’re home safe, okay? And if anything feels off, you call me. Or the police. Or both.”
“Promise.”
“Or even better, come and join me on my quest to find a perfect Daddy!” Robbie giggles. “Well, a perfect Daddy for tonight anyhow…”
“Hmmmm,” I say, arching my eyebrow. “Behave yourself or you might end up getting spanked by two Daddies like last time.”
“Maybe that’s the plan,” Robbie says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
We hug tight—squishy, warm, Little hugs—then I head out into the chilly night air, Goldie safely zipped in my backpack again.
The walk to the gallery is quick.
The streets are quiet, just the occasional car whooshing past and the hum of the city that never really sleeps. I punch in the code at the back door, slip inside, and lock it behind me.
“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” I say, taking a deep breath.
The space looks different under the low emergency lights: shadows stretch long across the concrete, my sculptures looming like silent guardians. Milo’s arrangement isn’t terrible—he grouped the smaller pieces together nicely—but the big ones need better breathing room.
Especially the pair of boxing hares.
They’re myfavorites: two massive, muscular hares reared up on hind legs, paws locked in combat, every line of tension and fury captured in clay. It’s kind of like two Daddy hares sparringover who gets to claim the Little. Well, that’s my interpretation anyway. And as I’m the artist, what I say is the most important!
Anyway…
I set my backpack down and get to work.
I drag one pedestal a few feet left, step back, tilt my head.Better.
Another few inches.Perfect.
I move to the hares next, circling them slowly, imagining how the light will hit during the opening. Maybe if I angle them just so?—
A metallic click.
The back door.
My heart slams into my ribs.
“Milo?” I whisper.
But Milo left hours ago. And heneveruses the back door at night.
I freeze, listening.
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate. Two sets.
Male voices, low and calm.
I don’t think. I just move.
I duck behind the largest sculpture—the boxing hares—and crouch low, pressing myself against the cool clay base. My breath is loud in my ears. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“…paperwork should be through by morning,” one voice says. Deep. Controlled. Familiar.
