Bogo looked over at his two smallest detectives with weary eyes. "I can tell by your stances that you haven't had a case-breaking discovery. What do you have that I can throw to the media vultures?"

Neither Nick nor Judy was happy or surprised by the stress in the Chief's voice. Judy spoke first. "Sir, we may have discerned a pattern in the killer's victims, but we need Ducky to get some information from the Hayo Clinic to verify our current victim's identity."

Nick continued when the Chief glanced his way. "Doctor Furiakin will be sending a priority shipping request that will help explain some, but we believe all of the victims have in some way in the past slighted local artist John Thimbul." Nick paused and became contemplative. "It's also possible that each piece is directly related to the mammal killed and displayed; at least that's the case with our current vic. I'll have to see if Abby can look into that."

Judy glanced curiously at Nick. "Something you think we missed?"

Nick cracked his knuckles nervously. "More like overlooked; Bainbearidge did his whole Performance Art schtick on Corpse-"

"Corpus," Judy corrected.

"Right, Corpus. And then he, we believe, gets 'displayed' in an identical manner to the painting. I'm wondering if the other two are the same? Did Shabal only diss John's work, or was it specifically Triumph that he poo-pooed to the art snobs? Did John just lose out on an art contract to Perry, or was it for Phoenix Rising itself?"

Judy's eyes began getting wider with renewed excitement. "If we can get a list of incidents relating to specific paintings and mammals, we might be able to predict possible targets!"

Nick smiled, but rested a paw on her shoulder. "It's possible, but it could also be me chasing my own tail. No pinning hopes on this; it's just a hunch."

"I'll take a possible trend emerging as a sign of forward progress," Bogo said with a muted snort. "I'll approve that request from the good doctor as soon as I get it. Work this angle and see if the link holds under more scrutiny. If you think you can start to get a profile of possible future victims worked up, I consider that the next best break to actually cuffing this so-called Artiste." Nick and Judy gave him an inquiring look and he sighed. "It was only a matter of time before the media gave this guy a moniker. That's what they're calling him."

Nick and Judy both grimaced. Bogo picked up one of many folders gracing his desk and waved them off the chair.

"I'd appreciate it if this press conference was the only one of these I have to give," he said as he levered himself out of his seat. "I don't need to tell either of you how ravenous the media can get for details, especially gruesome ones. Get me leads so I can let them chew on those and give us some room to work."

Both Nick and Judy sagged slightly at the implied pressure, but saluted and left to continue their investigation. Nick waved at Judy as he headed to the elevator. "I'm going to see if I can get Abby onboard, if you want to touch base with Dolly or John."

"Will do," Judy waved at Nick and headed to their office.

She was tempted to veer at the last minute away from the hall that led to the cubicles and back in the direction of the atrium, following in Bogo's wake to the imminent news frenzy he was about to placate. The thought of the row of microphones and the throng of reporters made her stomach churn and she rejected that thought immediately. Secondhand stress wouldn't do her any good right now, but maybe a little food might.

Judy cut a swift turn at the stairwell and headed to the break room. She hoped there were some herbal flavored gnaw-sticks left in the vending machine. The patrol wolves went through the salted and fish-flavored ones so fast they sometimes went after the ones she had requested be ordered.

When she came in, she felt an odd kind of tension in the room; like a buzzing she could almost hear, but only at the edge of her senses. She made her way past Francine and Bob Trumpet, who simply sat and stared at one another over their coffees. She lucked out at the vending machine, and also got a bag of spicy Plantain chips for when Nick came back up.

She had just turned around when McHorn barged into the breakroom. "Will you two knock it off already? If you're going to talk, do it so the rest of us can hear; not so low it stirs coffee on the third floor!"

Francine turned a lazy eye on her partner. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, though her tone was anything but apologetic, "was our private conversation interrupting you?"

Judy wanted to make a quick exit from the impending office drama, but Frank had planted himself in the doorway.

"As a matter of fact, yes." His tone was outright challenging. "Your rumbling is making every printer in the precinct jitter. I have a field report that looks like ASCII art now!" He brandished a relatively small stack of pages at the two elephants.

Bob Trumpet lived up to his name as he snatched the ream. "You were using the Zebrox on the third floor again, weren't you?" Bob waved the papers dismissively. "That thing jitters when Hopps chews loudly, and we have a mindless media herd milling around in the lobby. Don't go blaming your poor planning on our biology."

There was a brief standoff between the two as they stared each other down. McHorn eventually snatched the paperwork back with a harsh snort before turning on his heels and leaving the way he came. The door had just closed behind him when Judy felt the tense buzzing begin again.

Judy wrestled with herself back and forth for a moment. She gripped her snacks tighter, squared her shoulders, and made a beeline toward the big table where the two pachyderms were seated.

"Francine?" The elephants paused in their rumbling and looked down. "Sorry to, ah… interrupt you, but is everything okay? You aren't usually that harsh with Frank."

She smiled and gave a short trumpet. "Oh Bunny, you just haven't done a ride-along with me and Frank. We generally keep it civil in the precinct, but he's surprisingly thin-skinned for a Rhino."

Bob sipped his coffee and chuckled. "They're just not social animals, and Frank is making it a point to get on our collective last nerve today."

"Is this really about the printer?" Judy knew it had to be something else, but 'process of elimination' was second nature to her.

Francine sighed. "No, not really. He gets frustrated when he can't understand what I'm saying, as though I'd be saying something about him I wouldn't say right to his face. It's been a sticking point for years. It's a matter of principle now."

"Oh." Judy's ears flagged. "Sorry, then. That's out of line."

Bob shrugged. "Truth is, it's impossible to share the silly song my daughter was singing to me this morning in Common, and I just had to share it with someone."

Francine laughed. "Everyone should be thankful I'm taking one for the team. Your singing is awful."

Bob swung his trunk up and puffed at her square between her eyes. She gave him a good-natured flinch and laugh. Judy felt the tension ease and there were no further rumblings around the two elephants. She smiled and turned just as her ears picked up very different rumblings from the mounted television nearby. She glanced up to see live coverage of the press conference going on not twenty yards from her.

"At this time, we are pursuing a number of leads regarding these heinous crimes. The mammals of Zootopia may rest assured our total effort is being brought to bear to identify, locate and apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators responsible."

Several reporters pressed forward with microphones thrust out like accusing fingers. Judy could see the war in the chief's eyes as he debated just telling them, 'No questions'. In the end, though, he gave a resigned snort, pointed to an impala, and nodded.

"Henry Pyceros, ZNN," the reporter said, readying his pen against the notepad in his hooves. "Is there any common thread linking the victims of these murders?"

"My detectives are following a few possible connections," Bogo said tactfully.

The reporter followed up the non-answer quickly with, "Could you elaborate on those possible connections?"

"We are not prepared to commit to any one possibility at this time. More information will be provided as we gather additional evidence."

Bogo cast his gaze away from the impala and a snow leopardess managed to catch his eye. He pointed to her and nodded. "Jennifer Tailisker, Evening Gazelle. Do you have any suspects at this time?"

Judy could tell by the flick of the Chief's ears that he felt he'd already answered that question, but she knew equally well that there was no escaping the media when they had your scent.

"There have been very few mammals of interest in this case currently, and no arrests have been made at this time." Bogo gathered his papers between his hooves. "That will be all the information I can provide at this time. The ZPD will keep the city updated as we learn more in this developing case. No further questions."

The throng of reporters began firing additional questions over each other in an attempt to be heard before his inevitable dismissal. Photographs snapped and the Chief expertly ignored the limelight that followed after him, his tail flicking behind him as though swatting away the irritating questions bugging him as he took his leave.

Judy turned away from the television, a pang of secondhand press conference uneasiness sweeping through for the briefest of moments. She cast a wan smile at the two pachyderms and said, "That's probably my cue to get back to it. I'll leave you to your impromptu singalong."

Francine gave her a look of faux betrayal as Bob smirked. Judy could just make out the dull rumble resume as the door closed behind her. She headed to the rear of the building where the fire escape stairs were. They weren't the most convenient method to get to her's and Nick's office, but it would keep her out of the media's sights. She continued to mull the situation as she trudged.

What do we really know beyond the identities of the victims? We think John has nothing to do with all this, but all of the pieces he makes are so… dark. That has to come from somewhere...

She shook her head hard. NO! I've looked in his eyes, and there was genuine grief and regret. Those weren't the eyes of a killer.

But neither were Bellwether's, and she had me, Nick, and the Chief duped. Can I trust my gut on this one?

By the time she was back to the cubicle, she was even more confused than when she'd left the Chief's office. She sat staring at the phone trying to formulate what she'd ask of either John or Dolly without coming off as accusatory; after all, mammals were presumed innocent until proven guilty.

But someone is always guilty, whether the law knows it or not.

She pinched her eyes and shook her head fast enough for her ears to slap. "Get it together, Hopps," she whispered to herself, "you can do your duty without compromise. Just make the call, get the facts, and follow where the evidence leads."

She felt slightly renewed, even if it was just likely vertigo, and picked up her desk phone.

Dolly's studio number rang six times before going to voicemail. She left a generic message, then tried John's personal number. He picked up on the second ring.

Hello? This is John.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Thimbul." The carefully neutral, citizen-facing tone of voice took on a cool edge, though it wasn't one that Judy intended. "This is Officer Judy Hopps with the ZPD. We spoke recently at Precinct One."

Oh. This is about… he trailed off. Judy heard a shaky breath over the line. I heard Chief Bogo's address on the radio while I was painting a little bit ago. What can I do to help?

Not paint grotesque pictures that inspire psychopaths, for a start, Judy's teeth chirred slightly as she got herself under control. "We think we may have identified a pattern in the killings. We need to cross reference each piece that has been... replicated, with any incidents relating to the victims used as a medium. If we can discern a trend, we might be able to anticipate possible future occurrences."

There was a pause. What kinds of incidents?

"Anything you can think of." Judy readied her pen on her notebook, another tense breath coming into her ear. "Or maybe something you're already thinking of?"

I... honestly I can't understand any of it!

Judy's foot thumped in empty air. "Nothing? Really? Not Jamal Shabal's scathing review about your art, or Bainbearidge destroying one of your earliest works? You don't consider those noteworthy at all?"

Jamal? What, the art critic from the Gnu Yorker? He's paid to criticize art and push certain styles; he was never going to give my work a positive review, so why should I care what he writes? John's voice had a note of strength and fire Judy hadn't heard from the rat before.

Judy hummed nonchalantly. "Tearing up a piece with words is a far cry from actually tearing one up, I suppose."

There was an additional defensiveness added to the painter's words. I held no malice toward Bainbearidge. We sat down after he did his piece but before my interview in ArtAnimalia. I asked why he chose my painting to destroy and not some corporate carbon copy. He told me that he picked mine because it was art, and not just some Preston Peary Lobby painting. It was irreplaceable, and the whole point of his performance pieces is the fragility of the NOW. There won't ever be another piece like Corpus, and he was trying to show that to the world, to me! His talk changed me. Up until then I'd been trying to replicate whatever it was that got Night-Hawk its publicity, and Corpus was made out of frustration. It was unique, and that was what made it good. I stopped trying to chase patterns and trends and just made art! Not just something popular, but something that matters.

Judy let her pen come to a gliding halt, breath hitching just slightly. There was no denying John's skill with a paintbrush, and he used it to create what was, to her eyes, gross obscenities. She certainly would have preferred to see it used to create a landscape or a bowl of fruit… but that wasn't what motivated him. Would he put so much passion into something that didn't speak to him as loudly as this?

Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, John said, I know it isn't for everyone, what I paint. And I know a lot of mammals were just attracted to it for the shock value even before the murders; but for every fifty Jamals, there's one Bainbearidge and that makes it worthwhile! John was actively panting after his rant.

Judy stared at her notepad without any real focus on the words there. She asked, "So... there was no enmity, no resentment?"

She heard John give a bitter laugh. Nicodemouse, no! He inspired me. I spent a month really re-evaluating the direction I was taking my art, and shifted entirely to Stark Impressionism. It doesn't sell outside particular collectors, but they appreciate it more, and for the same reason Bainbearidge did. That's why I wasn't torn up when I lost out on the Appleton Towers contract piece to Preston. He enjoys still lifes and landscapes and the sort of things corporations love and Barksy messes with.

"But you still entered into the bid?"

Of course! It was a fifteen-thousand-dollar contract! I'd be stupid not to.

Judy whistled. "That's a pretty penny. I imagine bidding for contracts like that can get a bit… well, for lack of a better word, cutthroat."

I guess it can, at times; but while Appleton Towers may not have picked up Phoenix Rising, it was still sold for twelve thousand to a collector.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. Staggering amounts of money for pieces of canvas with graphic depictions of gore on them. The most universal of motivations. But also personal connections to each piece, though not for John himself. Jamal's connection to Triumph was clear to see, and now she had confirmation that Preston Peary was a direct competitor associated with the creation of 'Phoenix Rising', as well as Bainbearidge's connection to 'Corpus'. It was a strong causal link, but was it the right one? She needed to refine her theory, to eliminate any extra variables so she could see the crime through the minutia.

The details... details like Daniel Fields.

"Well, I have to say that this has been very illuminating information. I only have a couple more questions, if you have time?"

Sure, I guess. What else did you want to know?

Judy steeled herself for the one question regarding the one mammal she knew John had a real emotional connection to. "During Daniel Fields' work at the studio, were there ever any incidents he mentioned regarding Triumph?"

There was a hitch on the other end of the line. Incidents? Like what?

"Anything out of the ordinary. Good or bad."

There was a prolonged pause, long enough that Judy almost asked if he was still there. She bit off that inquiry as John finally spoke again. I'm sorry. I can't… I'm trying, but I… Another hitch. Danny loved that painting. He left it for last every time he came just so he could linger over it. Whenever I went to find him, that's always where he was.

Judy's muzzle scrunched up. Danny didn't match the profile she'd been building: no perceived disrespect, no vandalism or competition; just an avid lover of an art piece that spoke to him, that he was never going to be able to afford. And with only three incidents to work with, there wasn't enough contrary evidence to discount his being targeted.

Though the last thing she or anyone else needed was for there to be a larger sample pool to work from.

"Thank you, John. I realize that wasn't easy for you."

I'm all right. Really. It's just… His voice trailed into a long pause. His voice took on a wistful quality when he finally spoke again. I miss talking to him, you know? It was… he was… He sighed. It felt like he really heard me. I could tell him anything about these paintings and it didn't matter what it was, he would hear it all.

"Sounds nice. It's important to feel heard." Judy tapped her pen on the desk. "What kinds of things did you talk about, then? Inspiration, or faux pas, or things like that?"

Yeah, things like that. Like- There was a bit of jostling on the other end for a moment, the sound of air rushing past the speaker. -like when I accidentally tore a hole in Oroboarus because the director of the Metropolitan Modern Arts College, Mr. Peterswine, called while I was working on it. Or when I had to scrap an early draft of Unhinged because the paint dried while I was being glad-pawed by some investor Dolly had brought in; Tanuki Ishida I think. Or…

Judy's pen started scribbling furiously notes from John's recollections, each one running into the next, painting to painting, like she was listening to a guided tour of the gallery through his voice. There were some that were benign enough tales, funny even-more than once his grim sense of humor made her laugh-but more often his words took on a somber quality that tugged at the heartstrings. He was a mammal that had experienced true loss-both parents dead of pneumonia just before he graduated high-school, years of poverty before his first break. A passion that was fed by deep-seated anxieties and a loneliness carefully crafted with his own two paws. All this poured out onto canvas to sate his desire to be meaningful to mammals he had such a hard time connecting with. To bring meaning to a world that so often seemed to be without.

It had been more than a few minutes' worth of rambling before John abruptly stopped himself mid-sentence. I'm sorry I went off like that, I… wow, what a waste of your time…

"Not at all," Judy assured him lightly, and when she heard a deprecating kind of scoff from him she added, "John, really. I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me. This has all been very enlightening, and helpful."

I hope it has. Truly. I want to help.

Judy's ears twitched. "I know you do. And I realize it might be asking a lot of a creative mammal like yourself, but I have to request that you… maybe limit your creativity. For the time being. Whatever the killer is inspired by, none of us want additional inspiration or variables."

Oh. A pause. Right, of course. Makes sense to limit extenuating factors. Perfect sense.

Judy grimaced. "I know this is your passion and livelihood, but-"

No, I get it. Really, I do. It's just… He breathed a harsh breath. I don't know what else to do with myself. Is that weird? Like, I don't… Another breath, steeped in exasperation. There's so much in me. I always felt I should do something constructive with it all, make something instead of… I don't know, tearing something apart. I feel that way, sometimes, and grabbing a brush is less expensive than fixing a hole in the wall. What else can I do if I'm not painting?

Judy smiled, though she knew John couldn't see it. "It isn't weird. You're..." She paused a moment, "you're driven by your passion. I know exactly how that feels." She smirked slightly. "My partner Nick usually has to nag me into taking leave. If not for him I swear I'd probably lose all my time off."

There was a forced chuckle. Time off? What's that?

"You set your own schedule, don't you? I'd say you're more than entitled to take a little time away from working, given the circumstances."

I suppose I should. It's been… He paused, a long pause. I can't remember how long, actually.

"Well, that's a good indication it's time for a break. Do you maybe have anyone you can visit with and talk to, at least until all this blows over? Maybe you could take some time to just go enjoy the city a little. Take Dolly out to scout the competition a bit?"

Judy heard John suck a breath through his teeth. Ours isn't really a... cordial relationship. It's more of a professional one. I rent the studio. She manages the business side of marketing the pieces I create, finds prospective clients and such, gets a small cut. If it isn't profiting the gallery, she doesn't really have time for it.

"Well, not all of your time needs to be devoted to production, does it? I mean… pot calling the kettle black here, of course, but even I know that Nick's right when he shoves a leave request in my face. A little jaunt out at a few galleries or museums for a day seems a good use of your time to me." Judy smirked to herself a little mischievously. "I don't know if you're in the mood for company, but there's a certain rabbit who would probably enjoy talking over the latest art-crazes with you if you're up for it."

There was a long pause. You really didn't strike me as the type, I'll be honest.

Judy barked a laugh; couldn't believe she had a laugh in her, but there it was. "No, not me! Abby! Abby Scutto, you met her when you came in last week? Exchanged cell phone numbers? Ringing a bell?"

OH! Tense laughter on the other end now also. Right, of course. That… makes much more sense.

The laughter ended as abruptly as it began, Judy launching back into her more professional phone voice as she said, "Just a thought. And thanks again for your time. Remember to keep your eyes open, and stay safe. If you think of anything, or something seems amiss, please call me or Officer Wilde."

I will. Thank you. Have a good day.

Judy returned the well wishes and hung up the phone just as Nick rounded the corner of their shared cubicle. "Well, Abby's putting together an allegory, or building an alligator, or whatever it is young whipper-snappers do with computers besides surf for porn and funny bird videos. After that it's either going to Data-Mine, or play Mine-Craft; one of the two. Any luck on your end?"

Judy grinned at his Old-Dog antics. While he would never win any gaming awards or hack any computer systems, he was still competent enough to not need to bother IT with minor issues or operator induced messes.

"John confirmed almost all of the connections we suspected except Danny Fields. He also mentioned a few mammals that... influenced his creativity in several recent pieces. It's a possibility that one of them could be the next victim, but with only four victims and three murder scenes I don't feel comfortable pinning the tail on this Donkey quite yet."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Making jokes and taking jabs at fellow officers? You got your fire back." He smiled and nodded. "Good, 'cause barring a miracle finding from Criminalistics or the Morgue, that theory is about our only lead right now."

Briiiiiiiing! Briiiiiiiing! Briiiiiiiing!

As if on cue, Nick's desk phone began to ring in earnest. He reached over and plucked it off the receiver. "ZPD, Officer Wilde." He listened and then dropped the phone back in its cradle while simultaneously hitting the speaker button. "Go ahead, Ducky, I've got you on speaker."

Good afternoon, Officer Hopps. I trust I find you in better spirits than last we spoke.

Judy's ears flagged. "Incrementally, yes."

Good. I hope I can improve that further with the latest lab results I just received back.

Nick quirked his ears as he glanced at Judy. "Well, don't keep us in suspense Doc."

The ermine coughed slightly. Quite. We've managed to separate Mister Fields from Miss Carcallie, as well as the implement he was bound to. There were no traces of blood or other mammal tissue, but there were traces of ochre, amber, turpentine and linseed oil sealed under the clearcoat.

Judy looked at Nick curiously. "That's an odd combination to find on a scalpel."

Indeed it is, which is why I bring it up. Forensics is currently working on a chemical profile to see if we can deduce what this blade was used for. There was one other detail, specifically about Mister Fields. While there are indications that his death was caused by an overdose, there is no indication of recent chronic use.

Nick frowned as he pulled out Danny Fields' file. "His record shows an arrest for possession in conjunction with an assault, as well as a prison medical report on his rehab treatment. Did he fall off the wagon?"

It would need to be someone who knew his preferred poison. His kidneys and liver both show near complete recovery, while there are no traces of metabolized drugs in the follicles of his fur. Our friend has been clean for at least three months, if not more. This particular substance is more psychologically addictive than biologically. He is unlikely to have experienced anything stronger than mild cravings one might experience for a favorite sweet.

Judy began typing on her computer while looking at the list in her hand. Nick chuckled at the phone. "Thanks Ducky. We'll look into leads that might connect with Danny."

Very good. If you'll excuse me, I must return to my duties. The line went dead as Nick and Judy began cross referencing Danny Fields' known associates with John Thimbul's list of names.

...

John Thimbul was panting; his paw shook as he hung up his phone. The circuitous path he'd taken through the gallery had ended in front of Triumph, and his chest ached as he looked up at it, eyes wandering unconsciously to the right-hand corner where Danny would sit on his break. Where they would talk in Old Volish about more than just work and painting. So much more…

The siren song of the canvas called to him and he heeded it without a second thought, making a beeline past Triumph, past Homecoming and Epiphany and Out of Order to the back wall, through the still open door of the studio in the back and the unfinished piece he'd started when the phone rang.

It would be about that time now to start scraping the edges where the colors met, let the razor edge add an element of sharp contrast between them. Where where where did that knife get to? John rummaged through the half-rolled tubes and still wet brushes on the ledge of the easel… and stopped. His painting sat barely half-finished and he ached to pour all his anxiety and heartache out over it. But the officer's words rose over the tumult, a simple request to leave the brushes and the paints aside until they could figure out what was happening with them. Until they could find who'd erased Daniel Fields from the world's canvas.

He could let his paintbrush rest until Danny was laid to rest himself.

John wiped his paws with the paint rag and dug his phone out of his pocket again when the sound of light pattering footsteps rose to his ears.

"John, dear, I have some spectacular news for you," Dolly said as she entered through the studio doors all smiles, brandishing a few catalogues in her paws. "Schminke Moussini is interested in hosting a public session with you to showcase their line of oil paints. Ticket sales are estimated to be over four thousand dollars, at least. I know it's the brand you prefer, and if you could give a demonstration for an hour or two…"

She trailed off as she came to a halt just beside his work station, eyes following his pacing as he stared at his phone between his paws, fingers endlessly scrolling over the screen. This wasn't right. John had the soul of an artist; he was supposed to be caught in the tormented throws of creation while wrestling his muse, not surfing his phone!

"Joooohhhn," she singsonged his name as she trailed behind his pacing. "Did you hear me?"

"What?" He turned and looked up, as though just realizing she was there. "Yes, Dolly, fine. Just… not today. And… you know what? Not tomorrow, either. Or this week. I'm taking a break."

Dolly stared a moment and then barked out a tense laugh. "Very funny, John."

His face may as well have been made of marble. "I'm not joking."

Her forced smile stuck, though her eye twitched. "What do you mean you're not joking? Where did this come from?"

"It's what needs to happen right now. I need this. The police think it will help them narrow down possible victims and I want to help them, so that's what I'm going to do."

Her eye twitched again, and she redoubled her smile. "But, John… four thousand dollars in ticket sales. Come now, let's not be rash." She shook her head at him and smoothed back her ears before indicating the catalogues she was holding. "Now about the public session-"

"Tell them I appreciate the interest, but no thank you." John stabbed his finger at the screen of his phone and cast one last look at his unfinished, slowly drying painting. He started toward the door. "I'll be back later."

"You… but, you…" Dolly sputtered, taking a few feeble steps after him and then back toward the canvas, and again. "But the… it's not finished, John…!"

"And?" John glanced at the unfinished work, then back at his phone. "It's not the first incomplete piece in my catalogue." He sighed and looked absently around the room. "Maybe Detective Hopps is right; I really do need a break from all this." He looked back at his phone and began typing a message. "The idea will keep fine, and I can come back to it with a fresh perspective."

Dolly heard the distinctive chime of an incoming text on John's phone. His smile and flashing fingers were the last thing she expected. She needed to get this under control! "Be reasonable, John; I've already made the arrangements for the event, and a dozen tickets have already been sold. You have an obligation-"

John cast her a terse but sad glance. "An obligation you made without consulting me first to see if I was available or willing. I'm not, and I'm not." He pocketed his phone and headed over to his coat rack. "If you'll excuse me, there's a rabbit I have made arrangements with waiting to meet me. I'll see you on Thursday."

He lifted his jacket off the rack and started to put his arm through the sleeve as he walked purposely through the studio door, and then out of the gallery entrance. The front door chimed merrily, a sound at odds with the tense atmosphere hanging in the air.

John grimaced to himself as he finished donning his jacket; every step away from his studio was a step toward something that he found himself genuinely looking forward to. He felt a bit awful inside for what he said to Dolly, but she should have known better. It would be fine. She was just as good at negotiating her way out of events as she was negotiating her way into them. She would come out on the other side cranky but ready for the next event, just like always.