Chapter 5
The crisp night air hit us like a physical blow after the stifling, perfume-heavy heat of the ballroom. We slipped through the glass doors into an enclosed courtyard framed by trimmed boxwood hedges and stone benches damp with evening dew. Far above us, the amber glow of the grand hall's windows cast long, skewed geometric shadows across the gravel path.
Clara stayed close to my side, her cream lace dress brushing against the hem of my trousers. The muffled thumping of bass and low chatter from the string quartet filtered through the glass, sounding distant and unreal, like music played underwater.
"We're safe out here for a minute," I said, guiding her toward a stone bench sheltered beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak tree.
She climbed up onto the bench, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest, and peered back through the glass doors to make sure we hadn't been followed. The courtyard was empty save for a row of decorative gas lanterns flickering along the perimeter wall.
I took out my phone, the screen casting a harsh blue glare across my bearded face. The emergency numbers scrawled on the back of Clara's paper note stared back at me. If I dialed them, the temporary illusion of our borrowed day would shatter against administrative reality. Social workers, precinct desks, and custody disputes would descend on us within the hour. Yet keeping her hidden out here in the cold was a borrowed ticking clock.
"Clara," I said gently, sitting down beside her on the cold stone. "Who wrote those numbers on your paper?"
She looked down at the ground, tracing a crack in the stone with the toe of her shiny black Mary Jane shoe. "My aunt. Sometimes she forgets to pick me up from the center. She told me if I ever got lost at a big party where the adults wear black suits, I should find someone who looks like they aren't having any fun either and ask them to help."
The simplicity of the instruction struck me harder than any accusation could have. A child coached in survival tactics disguised as party etiquette. She hadn't wandered into the gala by accident; she had been brought there by an adult who drifted away, leaving her equipped with a crayon-drawn heart and a desperate script.
"Well," I said, my voice thick despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "She picked the right person. I'm exceptionally good at not having fun at parties."
May you like
A faint, hesitant ghost of a smile touched the corner of her lips, though her eyes remained wide and watchful. Before she could answer, the glass door behind us clicked open again. This time, it wasn't the woman in the slate-gray coat. A venue security guard in a sharp uniform stepped out onto the patio, scanning the shadows with a flashlight.
"Hey! You two aren't supposed to be out in the private sectors," the guard called out, his boots crunching sharply against the gravel as he turned his flashlight directly toward our bench.
