Chapter 7
The flashlight beam trembled slightly as it hit the white paper. The guard squinted, his eyes tracking the hasty scrawl written in blue ballpoint pen along the jagged bottom edge where Clara had torn it from a notepad. Those weren't venue ticket numbers or cloakroom checks. They were personal digits, followed by a local precinct extension and a case serial number that looked entirely too official for a Saturday night charity gala.
"Where'd you get this?" the guard asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing its sharp administrative bite and taking on a wary caution. He looked from the note up to my face, scanning my black suit, my unkempt beard, and the tight grip Clara had on my lapel.
"She brought it to me inside," I said, keeping my tone level. "Her guardian walked out through the side atrium twenty minutes ago to take a phone call and never came back. She's been sitting by the water fountain alone."
The guard lowered his radio an inch, the red standby light blinking monotonously against his dark sleeve. He looked over his shoulder toward the glass doors of the grand hall, where the low murmur of string quartets and polite laughter still drifted out into the cool air like smoke. Inside, hundreds of people in tuxedos and silk gowns were raising champagne flutes, entirely unaware that a six-year-old girl in a cream lace dress had been quietly misplaced between the catering tables.
"Management won't like this," the guard muttered, shaking his head. "If Child Protective Services gets called to a private corporate fundraiser, the PR fallout is a nightmare. They'll want us to sweep it into the back office and handle it quietly through the event director."
"We're not going into a back office," I said, my grip tightening around Clara's small, trembling frame. "She stays where she feels safe, or I walk out these gates right now and call the precinct numbers written on that paper myself."
The guard stared at me for a long, silent moment, weighing the risk of a public scene against the corporate directive to keep the peace. The amber garden lights caught the moisture in Clara's blonde curls as she peeked out from my shoulder, her round eyes fixed on the man in the uniform with quiet terror.
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"Alright," the guard said finally, pressing the radio back against his belt. "Ten minutes. Take her down to the East Lounge where it's quiet. If she isn't claimed or if I don't see an authorized family member step forward by then, I'm handing the report over to the duty manager, and whatever happens after that is out of my hands."
He turned on his heel, his boots crunching away down the gravel path, leaving us alone beside the stone fountain. Clara let out a long, ragged breath that fluttered warm against my neck. I looked down at her, realizing with a sudden, sinking clarity that the temporary game was over. We weren't just playing a part anymore; we were hiding from a clock that was running out.
