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times.
    “Walk,” he commanded me.
    I bit my lip, shoving my hands in my hoodie, and walked. I didn't see very many other people, and they were all minding their own business. If I screamed for help, would he shoot me? It didn't seem likely, but then again he was a rich white man and I was... well, I was me. I was white, but not rich, and I was dressed in my poor clothes. If he shot me, there'd probably be reasonable doubt. Someone would think I looked just suspicious enough, that the light was gray enough, that I'd been just threatening enough to let him off the hook. It dawned on me that if he shot me in the warehouse, he would claim he found me here, stealing Malcolm's shit.
    People would believe it, too.
    If it had been possible, I would have hated Don Cardall even more with that realization.
    He nudged me up to the garage entry. There was a keypad next to it and he gestured toward it.
    “You put in the code,” he said.
    Getting my fingerprints on it, I thought. I input the numbers he rattled off, and the deep click of the door unlocking indicated that the combination had been correct.
    “Open it,” he commanded me.
    I shot him a glare. Just to fuck with him, I pretended to struggle with it. I'm just a dumb girl, I thought at him, hoping to beam it psychically into his brain. I'm so weak. Now hurry up and make a mistake, you ass. After much theatrical grunting I finally slide the door open and we stepped inside. Don turned on the overhead lights and closed the door after us.
    The warehouse spread out in front of me, ugly and stark in the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. All boxed up and arranged by type, Malcolm's amalgam of junk and treasure seemed a lot smaller than it had in his house. Again I was reminded of the things someone leaves behind after they die, and a weird sadness swept through me, cutting into the low-grade hum of adrenaline in my veins.
    If I died here, my worldly effects would barely fill a closet. My friends would barely fill three pews. I worked too hard, was too bitter, burned too many bridges. A lump rose in my throat.
    Stupid emotions, I thought to myself. Don't need you messing things up right now, thanks.
    “Where are the files?” Don's voice behind me cut through my self-pitying melancholia. I had to think fast.
    “I'm... I'm not sure,” I said. “He didn't actually tell me where, exactly...”
    “Oh? If you aren't going to be of help to me then I'm afraid you won't be earning that one million dollars.” The rustle of his hand drawing out of his coat, exposing his gun, sent a bolt of fear through me.
    “No!” I said. “I kind of know where they are.”
    He was silent for a moment. “Well?”
    I turned around and looked him in the eye. I wanted to make myself as human as possible to him, but the person that peered back at me was cold and hard as a reptile. “It's... I think they're hidden in or on one of his statues.”
    I was gambling here. I had no idea if he had any statues. I'd only seen the bust by the student of Rodin, but I was willing to bet he had more.
    My gamble paid off. An expression of exasperation passed over Don's face. “Damn,” he said. “I don't suppose you'd know which statue in particular?”
    I tried to look contrite and shook my head.
    He sighed and checked his watch. “Fine,” he said. “If you do not know where they are, you must find them, and do so in the next quarter hour, or I will shoot you.”
    “What?” I cried. “That's not fair! I have no idea where they are!” I gestured at the boxes around me. “How the fuck am I supposed to find them in all... all this in fifteen minutes?”
    He shrugged. “The clock is ticking, Miss MacElroy. I suggest you hurry.”
    Enraged, I whirled away from him, my mind racing. If I'd been hired to move a crazy rich guy's stuff, what would I do? I'd label everything for starters, and I'd organize it in the warehouse. But would the movers hired have done that? There was only one way to find