Thankfully, I don’t have to face Standish again, and I try to get to work and attempt to forget about how V might be taking care of him. I’m only marginally successful when my phone rings after lunch.

“Hi, Temperance, Valentina Hendrix. I’m hoping you can help me out.”

Please don’t let it be about the sculpture, I beg the universe. After Standish’s brutal verbal attack this morning, my guts feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and I don’t have the emotional distance to talk about it objectively right now.

Still, I keep the positivity in my tone just like a good COO would. “I’m happy to help if I’m able. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Valentina, please. And I’m pretty sure you already know what I want. The name of the artist, since I wasn’t able to buy the sculpture last night from the winner.” She pauses and I consider how to respond, but I’m not quick enough. “If you have the person’s name, you’d be doing him or her a great disservice by not passing along some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“The kind that could be very lucrative.”

“I’m afraid I—”

“Just hear me out before you say anything.”

I go silent.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I love to feature local artists at Noble Art, and I have a gut feeling that it was a local who made that sculpture. There was too much passion in that piece for it not to be made by someone who has the blood of this city running through their veins.”

I say nothing, hoping my silence will help her get to the point faster. It works.

“I want to purchase, rather than consign, a few more pieces with the same feel, and I’m willing to pay a fair price for them because I know I’ll be able to make money. I have several clients who will snap them up as quickly as I can get them into the gallery.”

The confidence in her tone is a balm to some of the wounds Standish inflicted, but I’m not ready to give her any kind of answer except . . .

“If I can get in touch, I’ll pass the information on. I can’t make any promises, though.”

“There’s no time limit on the offer,” she says, and I relax a fraction, even though I can hear the victory in her tone. “But . . . I’ll be honest, with the publicity from the auction and the rising interest and speculation, now is the time to strike. So, if this person has any kind of business sense at all, it would be extremely intelligent for him or her to get in touch with me sooner rather than later.”

My business sense is something I pride myself on, so her comment feels like a dare.

“I’ll make sure to add that.”

“I know most artists aren’t the best business people, but the ones that are . . . you’d be surprised how solid of a living they can make in this town if they play their cards right. It’s not as difficult as you’d think, especially if the person is smart about it. Feel free to pass that along as well.”

The hair on the back of my neck goes up like a dog scenting trouble. Does she suspect? The hints she’s dropping seem specifically delivered to pique my curiosity, but all the ugliness from Standish still remains, casting a pall over the entire situation.

“I’ll pass it along, but I can’t make any promises I’ll be able to get you a response.” I work to keep all emotion out of my voice, which takes some effort.

“Thank you, Temperance. I appreciate it. Let me give you the best ways to contact me.”

I write down both of Valentina’s numbers and her email address, then hang up the phone, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with that information.

One statement continues to play on repeat through my brain. “You’d be surprised how solid of a living they can make . . .”

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Art will never provide the same stability as a regular paycheck coming from Seven Sinners. And even more than that, welding scrap metal together and calling it art will never provide the kind of respectability I want, especially within the art community. I’ve worked too long and too hard to get where I am to even consider throwing it away to chase some crazy dream.

But one piece sold for fifty thousand dollars, a voice in my head whispers.

“Yeah, because someone else’s name was attached to it. Someone people had actually heard of and care about.”

I feel every inch the fraud because of it. None of those paddles would have gone up in the air if the bidders had known that the person who’d picked through the scrap yard and spent hours designing and welding was me.

I’m a nobody. But at least I’m making a name for myself here.

And besides, I’m already taking enough risks right now.