Chapter 4
The voice echoing down the marble corridor did not belong to the venue manager or a security guard. It belonged to a woman whose sharp, clipped cadence carried the distinct weight of familial authority and bitter fatigue. I watched Clara's small shoulders hunch inward, her fingers curling tighter around the worn gray ear of her stuffed rabbit until her knuckles went stark white.
"Stay right behind my coat," I whispered, rising from my crouch and positioning myself between Clara and the threshold where the heavy double doors stood ajar.
Through the narrow gap, I caught sight of a woman in a slate-gray coat, her dark hair pulled back into a severe twist, scanning the corridor with an expression that combined panic and irritation. She held a cold leather handbag under one arm while her free hand tapped a relentless rhythm against her thigh. She was looking for someone, and judging by the tight set of her jaw, she was running out of patience.
"Clara!" the woman called out again, her voice bouncing off the high ceiling. "Clara, stop playing around. This isn't the time."
The little girl behind me pressed her forehead against the small of my back, her breath hitching in a silent sob. I looked down at the paper note she had handed me earlier—the one with the clumsily drawn red heart. My thumb traced the emergency digits scrawled across the back in hurried ink. The sequence of numbers wasn't just a phone contact; it had the distinct municipal formatting of a social services intake line or a temporary foster roster.
"Do you know her?" I murmured softly, keeping my eyes fixed on the gap in the doorway.
Clara gave a microscopic shake of her head against my black suit jacket. "She said she was going to buy coffee," the girl whispered, her voice trembling so violently the words barely registered. "She said she'd be right back by the fountain. But then the man with the clipboard told me children weren't allowed near the lobby without a badge, and everybody kept walking past me."
The cruelty of it was casual, grinding, and utterly ordinary. No grand villainy, just an adult worn down to the bone by circumstance, stepping away from a child in a crowded, high-end hall and losing track of the minutes until the panic set in—or until convenience took over.
Footsteps clipped closer against the tile on the other side of the partition. The woman in the slate-gray coat was moving toward our alcove, her heels clicking a sharp countdown. I had seconds to decide whether to hand Clara over to a frustrated relative whose first instinct was public reprimand, or to maintain the fragile, absurd pact we had made under the crystal chandeliers.
"Hey," I whispered, turning slightly and crouching down so my eyes met hers. "Do you want to go back out there, or do we take the side exit through the garden?"
Clara looked at the door, then down at the red heart on the paper, and finally up at my face. The tear tracks were still wet on her cheeks, catching the amber glow of the wall sconce.
May you like
"The garden," she whispered.
I reached out, took her small, cold hand in mine, and guided her toward the heavy glass doors leading out into the cool autumn night before the footsteps reached the corner.
