“Wow.” I stare at the sculpture in the center of the gallery in awe.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?”

One of Valentina’s employees, an art student named Trinity, stands beside me.

“Amazing.”

“I cried the first time she hung one of my paintings on the wall. It was hard to believe that it was real.”

“I totally get that.”

“I mean, to be more accurate, I should probably say it was insane because someone actually bought it ten minutes later. For real money.”

My smile tugs so hard at my lips, I feel like my face might split. I glance at Trinity. “That’s incredible. What a dream come true.”

“It was only a real dream because Valentina taught me it was okay to have it. She pushed me. Wouldn’t let me quit. Kept me off the wrong track. Because, of course, there was this guy . . .”

“There’s always a guy,” I mumble.

A deep bark of laughter comes from the back room, and we both look in that direction.

“Sometimes he’s the right guy,” Trinity says. “Even when he’s disguised as the wrong guy.”

My brows droop and I turn to meet her gaze. “What does that mean, Obi Wan?”

“Just that sometimes you don’t know what you’re working with.” Rix’s tall frame becomes visible in the doorway. “She didn’t. She took a leap of faith, and it turned out to be the best jump of her life.”

“You sound like a philosopher, not an artist.”

Trinity shrugs. “I’ve loved and lost. What can I say?”

Valentina and Rix come toward us. “Try not to sound so world weary, Trin. You’re too young for that,” Valentina says.

“She’s too damn young for a lot of things, and she still does them,” Rix adds.

“Okay, you two, stop it. Temperance is going to think I’m still an eighteen-year-old idiot.”

“You said it, not me.” Rix’s ribbing comes out with an edge of laughter.

Before the banter can continue, the door chime rings again and a couple comes in.

“I was hoping you could make it. Even quicker than I expected,” Valentina says before moving toward the couple.

But they’re not looking at her or paying attention to a word she says. They’re moving directly to the center of the room where my sculpture stands.

“It’s breathtaking.”

The man finally cuts his gaze to Valentina. “How did you know? How are you always right?”

“It’s a gift.”

The woman reaches out but draws her hand back before it touches the metal.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can touch it if you want. It’s sturdy.”

Both of them jerk their chins sideways to face me.

“Is this the artist?” the man asks Valentina, his attention still on me.

When she doesn’t answer right away, I realize she’s giving me the option of deciding how to play it.

“I’m Temperance . . . and yes. That’s my piece.” It feels so amazing to admit it.

The man rushes toward me and holds out a hand. “I don’t know why Valentina hasn’t found you before now, but this is exactly what we need for the loft. It’s perfect. Tell me, what other pieces do you have? I need . . .”

* * *

When I walk out of Noble Art with a check in my purse, I may as well be walking on clouds.

Instead of waiting until she had the time to put together a proposal, Valentina launched into negotiations with the couple, starting off with, “Did you know that one of her pieces recently sold for fifty thousand?”

When the couple didn’t even blink, Valentina went to town. She got forty thousand for the piece, and less her commission, I now have a check for more money than I make in over half a year.

From my artwork.

Something created out of scrap metal. Based only on the image in my brain and the skills I taught myself.

How crazy is that?

I’m practically bouncing in the seat of my Bronco, unable to contain my excitement. This is surreal.

I pull out my phone to call Rafe because he’s never going to believe it. When the call goes directly to voice mail, a little of my enthusiasm gives way to fear.

Where are you, Rafe? Are you okay?

Our father left the house one day in a boat and never came back, and my deepest fear, other than failure, is that I’ll lose my brother the same way. That he’ll leave one day and disappear, leaving me with too many questions and no answers.

He’s all I have.

I call back and get his voice mail again, and this time, with the tremor of threatening tears in my voice, I tell him what I did. How proud I am. How proud I hope he is.

When I hang up, a tear tips over my lower lid. I pray my brother gets to hear my message, and I beg everything that’s holy to let me see him tomorrow.

Please don’t miss my birthday, Rafe.

* * *

Do I go or don’t I?

Of all the thoughts circling in my head, most of them a million times more important, that one keeps bubbling up to the surface.

The business card is on my coffee table, next to the folded coffee-splattered newspaper, and I’m trying to figure out what the two things have in common—besides one mysterious man whose name I don’t even know.

Who probably bought my artwork.

Who the hell are you? I pull out my work computer and find the auctioneer’s email address, then fire off a quick note as I curse my crap memory. The questions don’t slow.

Was he sitting at the café for me? Or was he waiting there for a meeting? Because that’s definitely what it looked like.

Does he work for Mount? Or was Elijah completely wrong?

Did he have something to do with Standish’s death?

I shut down those questions and pace my apartment with another worry in mind—worry for my brother. Sitting here all night thinking about everything that could have happened to him is going to drive me crazy.

I have two choices to block it out—go to the club or go to Elijah’s scrap yard.

Two very different men.

Two very different places.

Two very different motives.

What do I do?