"De Aardappeleters" (The Potato Eaters) by Vincent van Gogh (1885), the early version was stolen in 1988 and recovered in 1989, the final version was stolen in 1991 along with 19 other major paintings from the Vincent van Gogh National Museum, but the getaway car suffered a blown tire and the thieves were forced to leave the painting behind, leading to a recovery time of thirty-five minutes - value $91 million

Chapter Fifty-Two

"I think she stole it because of me," I mumbled, sniffling. "I was on a warpath of exposing replicas. I was out for blood; I didn't care whose it was. I'd started ripping apart anyone and anything that wasn't participating in the repatriation of wrongly lost paintings, too. But I had no idea Geraldine fit both of those descriptions. Maybe she knew she was running out of time, and didn't think she could covertly take the Widow down without raising questions. Or... or maybe she knew."

"Knew what?" he asked quietly. He already knew. I heard it, saw it, felt it. But I owed him honesty, as clear and as true as I could give him.

"Why I was there that night."

"Eleanor," he warned.

"Simon, last year, before everything happened, I was looking into the Widow," I desperately explained. "The story of the artist was so unknown. It was this gorgeous mystery so many had tried and failed to discover. The world knew the name, but hardly anything of the story."

I paused, hopeful, but he was blank, and my chest caved in a little deeper.

"I-I did some digging," I wobbled. "It was exciting, and fun, a-and mine. It was just fun, Simon, until I found what I was looking for."

"How did you find it if no one else could?" he demanded.

"At the time, I thought it was because I was special, or others just didn't look hard enough. That I could do what others couldn't." I could slice my self-importance off my body and not lose an ounce with how big it'd grown; a phantom limb I still felt but hadn't lost yet. "But I don't think that was the reason. It wasn't because no one else could, it was because I was lucky. I didn't realize until later I'd been given puzzle pieces no one else had; they were practically put together right in front of me. I found out Wille Le'Garrigue was really Clara Vouten, Marigold's grandmother—and the painter of both the poppies and the Widow."

"Really? You're claiming you didn't know?"

God, how his anger trembled in his scoffs and coiled under his tense limbs.

"Simon, please, I didn't know until last spring," I pleaded. "When I first received the poppies all those years ago, I knew the artist was Clara Vouten. Her story wasn't supposed to have any mystery left, she was a minor artist with a small Wikipedia page compared to him; nobody questioned her history or looked deeper into her. Not like they did for Le'Garrigue. Every museum in the world knows his name! He's attached to the Widow, but like I said, there's barely a crumb of a story."

I paused, remembering that spring, the season I'd undergone a wretched metamorphosis. "Sure, I saw the similarities in the styles, but I had no idea Clara was Le'Garrigue. I thought maybe Clara had studied under him, or was paying homage. In my wildest dreams, there was a possibility of connection, but even then it was a reach! I never would've thought what was actually the truth. All I wondered was if she was his student, or a fan. I thought maybe that was my in to find out more about Le'Garrigue."

His face was frozen waters. I had to keep going, pulling this chain until I could show him the anchor I'd tied myself to.

"So I dug. I did the type of digging that requires golden shovels, black credit cards, and dropping names," I scoffed, scornful as if it wasn't my own actions. "And when I found out the truth about Clara last spring, god, I was so excited. Can you imagine? I was practically leaping from the roof. I solved a mystery that'd been haunting the art world for a century!"

I glanced back at the Widows. "Then I learned more about her. It wasn't a mystery at all. Not really. And the more I found, the more I realized there was still more to the story. The painting's trail was... odd. Something wasn't right—I tried to find Clara Vouten's family; I tried to find Marigold. But instead, I got a warning."

"A warning? From who?"

"Vanessa Cardui." Lightning struck again, but this time, the thunder concentrated on Simon, clouding his already dark eyes. I almost reached for him, but thought better of it, flattening my hands by my side instead.

"The woman from the funeral?"

"Yes. Vanessa is the leader of a group specializing in the forceful repatriation and return of wrongfully held art, manuscripts, antiques, and more. It's an organization that squirreled paintings away under Hitler's nose, under Napoleon, under whoever tried to take what wasn't theirs. They return it to the rightful owners. Even now, they fight armies to wrangle back looted pieces. They protect art from bombs, raids, and wars when persecution drives destruction. Instead of works getting destroyed, or claimed by countries, or seized by anyone with money, they take them and return them. Sometimes, they—they steal them. Vanessa is just one of many."

"Why would they involve you?" Simon's stare was hard, but disbelief gleamed on the sharp edges of his chin and brow. "Solely because you reached out?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I was asking all the right questions, or because of who I was in the museum. But they warned me against directly contacting Marigold. They told me the story of her and Geraldine, and said she already knew about the painting's whereabouts. She couldn't face the risk of an all-out war with the Whitehills. An outright legal battle can't be guaranteed in her favor, Simon; the cases are still so unprecedented. But Vanessa already had a plan."

"Don't," Simon whispered, now looking sick. "Please."

I could hardly breathe as I forced the next words out through chiseled lips. "They convinced me what needed to be done," I admitted. "I orchestrated an expert being flown in from Venice to look at the painting and make sure everything was in order. His early report was great, so things were set in motion. None of us knew the painting was fake yet."

How stoic Simon fought to be, even now.

"On September 27th, I was meant to be at the museum late," I said. "I had a job to do, and dominos to set, but then I was supposed to leave. I wasn't supposed to be there when it happened, Simon. And I wouldn't have been, if it was Vanessa's team who took the painting. The plan never included me being caught on scene."

He didn't answer, staring at me dully, disbelief and angst turning him green, but I pushed on. "I-I thought I must've messed up to get caught." Were my lips bleeding? "I thought it was my fault—all of it—but I couldn't believe it'd happened at all. I mean, god, I couldn't believe what I'd done! What I thought I'd helped them do. It killed me. And then—and then it kept getting worse."

I wrenched out the sword I'd carried in my chest and drenched him in the spurting crimson, ruby, scarlet, carmine, goddamn rosy red of honesty and secrets.

"I found out more in February, after I got a call from the expert I'd flown in. He hadn't wanted to get too involved, so he didn't really, but h-he told me. He said it was because of what I was facing. I'm sure you remember that night."

I could tell from his look that Simon remembered; that it made him as ill as it made me to remember the days that'd followed. "What did he tell you?" Simon demanded.

My hand trailed the false oil curves of a pink dress. "He was the one who told me the Widow was a fake," I confessed. "The tests he'd run had come back dodgy. After he told me, I thought the Vouten family had the wrong one—that the painting they had was a fake—because I still believed Vanessa's team had been the one to take it."

My heart was in my ears.

"But they didn't," Simon said blankly. "They didn't have either. When did you find out Geraldine took it?"

My mind flashed with Jacarandas. My mind flooded with August. Was I loyal, at all? Would I try to be, even now? "Vanessa told me it wasn't them at the funeral. The family never got a Widow, fake or not. They thought I had it."

That didn't quite answer his question.

Simon knew that. His eyes narrowed when he suddenly asked, "Who was supposed to be part of Vanessa's extraction team that night?"

My teeth clenched on tender flesh. I couldn't tell him that, either. I threw a half-answer, a red herring, into the water for him to catch instead.

"I didn't know this until the funeral, but there was a descendant of Clara here the whole time, as part of the investigation. Marigold's grandson—Andrew Graves."

"Andrew Graves?"

"He was, and always has been, a private detective and consult for more than just Geraldine. I knew that, but Vanessa filled the rest in over the past few weeks." I blew air out between clenched teeth. God, how I hated Andrew Graves. "He's been chasing down paintings around the world for decades, but apparently the Widow was his white whale. When he thought they finally had it, it was taken, but it wasn't Vanessa. It wasn't their team. So he offered his services to Geraldine."

"Why would she accept? If she took it, why would she want him involved?"

"How could she say no? The painting was supposed to be gone. She wasn't supposed to know who took it."

"And you didn't know?" he repeated.

"I had no idea about Geraldine and what she'd done, I promise. But Graves thought I had double-crossed them and taken the painting for myself. I didn't! Of course not."

He mouthed '0f course not' like it was a term he'd just learnt to be different, like it'd never meant what he'd once thought it did. I regretted what I'd said; my honor was no longer a given, and neither was my word. Simon's gaze flicked between the Widows draped on the Koa wood of my dining room table. For now, even if no longer trusted, he would have to take my word about when the painting came into my possession. "The fake painting, you mean."

"Only Geraldine knew that," I said. Then I looked at the painting and the bag it'd arrived in. My heart throbbed a little harder. "I think," I quietly corrected.

Simon opened his mouth as if to say more, but I was crumbling before him.

"It wasn't me," I pleaded, shaking harder with every breath. "But I... Simon, it was supposed to be. I didn't do it, but I would have!"

Did I ever lie? Or did I just not tell the entire truth?

I was hiccupping and sniveling as beat by beat, breath by breath, I broke down. I couldn't hold back anymore. I couldn't hide the quavers in my voice or the trembles of my frame. "And I never—god, I never, Simon, I-I didn't ask her before she died! I didn't ask her why. I think I know now, but s-she should've been the one to explain. I just didn't a-ask."

Simon wasn't flinching anymore. Simon wasn't whispering, or shaking, or crying. Simon was flat. The stubborn, daunting desert was watching how my tears weathered the mountains of a horizon he wasn't a part of. Not anymore. "Why not?"

"I couldn't. I just couldn't."

"That's not an answer."

But I had nothing else to offer him. I stayed silent, and watched how he realized I had nothing else to say; I watched how the bitterness of it made him swallow.

"So it really was you," Simon breathed. His chin tilted up, eyes wide. "Or supposed to be. You—You deserved all of it. Holy shit, you did it. You deserved all of it."

I cried harder at that. Had I deserved it? Had I deserved the fall of the guillotine for my crimes, if I'd only ever swung the sword for good? I'd spilled blood in the name of justice, didn't that count for something? Anything?

No.

I couldn't even convince myself. I'd never been able to.

"You warned me," he mourned gravely, shaking his head, sight unseeing. Every syllable was another million miles put between us; every pulse was another reach to remove his heart from my hands. His disbelief was tangible, like the ripped pieces of us, like the rough edges of false widows. "You told me so many times."

"I never lied to you, Simon," I promised.

Yet, my promises meant nothing now.

"You lied to the world! You made yourself out to be a victim."

"They all turned on me!" I shouted. I was drunk on my anger and reasonings, but perhaps they were only delusions. "They were so all eager to believe it! They should've given me the benefit of the doubt, after everything I did for them! They should have defended me, not thrown me out!"

"It was all true!" his voice rose back. "You didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt, because it was true!"

"I know. I know," I repeated, falling back down. Why did I keep swinging the sword? I'd lost. I was guilty. I was only hurting the both of us more. Why couldn't I stop? "Simon, I know."

He was still staring, his gaze darting from eye to eye, and I knew what was happening. I knew the truth was bare before us. I knew all that was left were the wounds. He was trying to calm himself, but oh, how we bled. His chest rapidly rose and fell, but he was otherwise frozen as his wide eyes tried to understand me. He looked pained while trying to reach where I stood in the rubble, attempting so desperately to see what I'd seen and feared, to accept why I'd pulled the trigger.

"I don't understand, Eleanor. You were close to that family. You were practically a Whitehill yourself—"

"I'm not a Whitehill!" I rebuked, furious. "I never was."

"You were close enough! Why didn't you just ask Geraldine? Maybe you could've convinced her to return the painting, or told others what was going on. You could've done anything else other than go effing nuclear! Holy shit—do you understand how insane this is? What you've done? Do you understand what you've just told me?"

He was spiraling, but how could I explain? How could I tell him that I'd wanted to believe Geraldine would do the right thing if I'd asked—but my time as a Vacyker had gnarled the limbs of hope that should've reached for the sky? That I had known the loss would be hard to bear if the Widow was taken, but I'd believed in Whitehill so much, that I knew there was a good chance they'd be okay? That the museum would recover? How could I tell him what I would've lost if the Whitehills weren't the heroes I'd thought they were? How terror had outweighed the desire for confirmation? That I'd been ripped apart with fears I'd be proven wrong? That it wasn't a chance I could take?

And now, how could I tell him that after everything, after all I'd done to avoid finding out any more than I already had, that all of my worst fears had been proved right? Right, and then some? It was worse than I'd ever dreamed it could be. Since I'd found out Whitehill had proudly displayed a fake, I'd carried a grain of hope that maybe Geraldine hadn't known. That the crack in my worship after finding out about Marigold was the worst of it; maybe even that their fight had all been for naught... but Geraldine had always known. She'd known, because she'd hidden the real one. And now, though I'd been told before what'd happened between her and Marigold, reading for myself how Marigold had confronted Geraldine on her unyielding wrongdoings was era-ending—because it never should've gotten that far. Geraldine never should've let there be cause for Marigold to write that letter. The painting never should've been hers. It never should've been fake.

And it never should've been taken.

"I couldn't," I echoed, hoarse with tears. "I couldn't ask her that—so I did what I had to. If she wouldn't return it for her own best friend, or be motivated to return it to its rightful owner regardless, why would she return it if I'd asked? I knew it would be hard, Simon, but I believed they would recover. And they did. The museum is fine. I did it believing—no, knowing—everything would be okay in the end."

"Is it? Okay?"

"It will be."

"And us?"

At that, there was nothing but agony.

If I loved him, maybe I would've left him much earlier. If I loved him, maybe I would've stopped it before it began. If I loved him, maybe I would've battled my own selfish desires for the sake of his preservation.

Did I need him or did I love him? Did I love him because I needed him, or need him because I loved him?

No. I love him. I do. I really, really do.

I hated to say it, but it was both. I needed him, like gods needed belief, like minds need distraction, but I'd also fallen to that siren's call. And I loved him for causing that splash. Even if I was currently drowning, I loved him for it; I worshipped the burn, the flood, the hold of the water. Because no one had ever tipped me over the edge before. No one had made me want to swim, to jump, to try. I loved him for the need he'd caused in me, because it was something only he did—and that made me think we were something special. My love kept growing at the realization his claws were too deeply embedded in me to heal without scars if he left; I needed him because I loved him, I loved him for how I needed him. I loved him. I did, and it caused a dependency like no other. It didn't step on the toes of my freedom or replace my independency; it was different. It was a dependency born of both choice and attraction, of cloaked secrets and exposed truths, of passion and peace. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved his dark eyes that held open secrets, and his lips that had once promised to hold my own forever if I'd so wanted.

He would've held my secrets, too, I think, if I'd trusted him enough to share them.

No—if I'd trusted myself to share them.

I loved Simon.

He'd forced me to exhale when I'd wanted to drown. He'd forced me to inhale when I'd wanted to burn. He'd forced me to breathe when I'd wanted anything but. And he'd scolded me with kisses to closed eyelids; he'd chided me with brushed lips on tinged cheeks. He'd chastised me with fingers in hair and his body latched to mine; he'd promised me forevers with kisses peppered from my nose to my collarbones, and he'd beckoned tomorrows with his hands on my hips. His actions had filled what spaces his words couldn't, but there wasn't much the words of Simon Gastapolous couldn't do.

He'd given me truths I'd greedily accepted and returned with lies.

He'd sworn he loved me between every beat of his heart, and I'd taken those moments of vulnerability as opportunity.

He loved me—but it was always too late. It'd always been too late.

I knew from one perspective it was a mistake in the first place. That I shouldn't have gotten close. But my very soul rebelled against that, lashing out in anger at the notion loving him was a mistake. Could love ever be a mistake?

Could the kisses I'd pressed against his jaw and lips be wrong? Could the goosebumps that'd scattered on his skin every time I touched him be falsehoods? Could the way his eyes had screamed his oaths for me be only flukes in a grand design? I thought of the way he'd held me, the way he'd cherished me, the way he loved me. How could that be wrong? It wasn't the emotion that was wrong, no, surely I was meant to love him. I was meant to hold him. I was meant to give him what I could—but, try as I might, I was starting to believe I was meant to lose him, too. I was starting to think the universe had known me all along—it'd known I would ruin the most beautiful thing it had. The universe knew who I was. It'd known I would lose him because I was a coward. My path was entirely my own, no choices had ever been withheld, but the cosmos had never once doubted the path I would choose. I believed that. I loved him.

But, why? Maybe I was meant to have loved and lost, but why him? Why Simon with his tender, indigo heart? He didn't deserve this. Simon deserved crowns of stamped pennies kissed for luck, bouquets of vermillion petals and pear green stems, happiness so rare it could be bottled and poured on his blessedly sinful tongue. Simon deserved peace; I'd once learned the word, yet here I was, still branding defiance with my lips. I'd mouthed my manifesto, lest I forget it, while he'd uttered prayers and wondered on penance. Why did my punishment also have to be his?

I was sorry. Sorry for what I did. Sorry that I hurt him. Sorry I couldn't be who he deserved.

But as selfish as it was, I wasn't sorry I loved him.

Maybe, I thought, the ending had never been set in stone. But we were. For as long as I'd tried, for as long as he'd had me, we were.

Yes, I knew it now. If I was a bigger person, I would be sorry I loved him. I would be sorry my love left lashes on his soul and wreaked havoc on mine. I would be sorry for putting him through my love when I saw what it'd done.

But I couldn't be. I was a coward—and it wasn't the first time I'd known that, either.

"I love you," I promised.

"You lied to me," he replied, rattled. Simon was raw, hurting. He was dying, trying to hold closed the wounds from my hand; dying, and I'd done the killing. He could hardly look at me.

Even now, faced with the truth, I would grasp for straws to save me.

"But I don't know if I meant to. I don't—I don't know if I lied. Maybe I just didn't tell you," I suggested. "But I know I love you, Simon. I know it."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not. I promise," I pleaded. A breathless laugh warbled out from the cavernous edge I walked, twisting through the air from my mouth. Rancor was shriveling my tongue with its foul taste. "I'm not, but, god, Simon. Maybe all love is a lie."

A broken laugh and an incredulous gaze from him, too. "After everything we've been through, after everything, you still believe that?" he asked.

I shifted. Air scraped my throat, flaring the abrasions inflicted by stones I'd coughed up all over this town. "I don't know," I answered. "But I believe you love me. And I know you think I lied to you."

His eyes were empty when he turned back to the paintings on my table. His shoulders were stooped; the mountain broken, the sun extinguished, the knight fallen on frozen ground.

I had his answer, and he had mine.

But I had more to tell him, more to confess, more salt to welcome to searing wounds.

"That night, at the fundraiser, for a moment..." I paused, then feebly confessed, "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?" he asked roughly.

The strain of this hour would push my vessels to burst. I pushed back enough to announce more truth. "The organization's motto. Tenemus artem quae nos tangit—we hold the art that touches us."

Simon's eyes flashed with understanding. Did he see memories of fireworks and flushed chests, too?

My hand rubbed where my ribs met my sternum, where underneath was a space I'd carved for him through red and white lies. "When you whispered to me that night, for a moment I thought—I thought you knew, but you didn't. You weren't part of it." I smiled weakly. "You just loved me."

I took the smallest of steps toward him, waiting to see if he'd retreat. He didn't. He only watched as I neared, his eyes hollow and his soul broken. He looked at me like I was mad, like I was unreasonable, like I was guilty, like he still loved me and didn't know why.

"Was any of it real?" he murmured, desperation stretched thin and sticky. "The poppies?"

I didn't answer as I reached for him, and this time he didn't flinch. He was held by my gaze, and he held it in return. His chest rose and fell, his hands trembled, and his eyes slid closed. Until, ever so slowly, Simon's body moved to close the last few millimeters to my outstretched hand. My fingers closed around his shirt.

He let me pull him in. He let me lean up, my other hand around the back of his neck, and press him close. I breathed him in, unable to get enough. He stayed, stooped over me, a weeping willow on the banks of the river, wide as it loomed against sky and frothing current. I closed my eyes as the roar turned to whimpers.

His nose trailed my cheek. Oh, I felt how he shook with the strain of holding back, and yet how he hardly moved at all, too shocked and beaten to afford the energy. I felt how he crumpled, metal giving way under unbearable heat. But, more than anything else, I felt how he loved me, and how much he hurt because of it.

My trembling lips pressed to the corners of his mouth. For a selfish moment, I prayed I would feel the edges curl into a smile. But I knew forgiveness was more than I could ask for. It was time. I couldn't ask for anything more from him. I could only count my lucky stars I'd ever gotten this chance; I could only shout my thanks I'd gotten to know him at all, to hold him, to love him. I needed to cherish it—and protect what was left of it. So I let him go. I expected nothing as I let my lips touch his skin for the last time. I opened my eyes, and fought back the sob that rattled my chest and teeth when I met the sooty eyes of my burned love.

"I'm sorry. It's not enough, but I'm sorry," I murmured, holding his gaze close. "I told you I couldn't promise a happy ending, Simon. I did, but I wish... I wish... god, Simon, I'm sorry."

Simon pulled away. My hands still reached, but he was too far from me now. He took too many steps back and took one last glance at the poppies. I could see how he struggled to breathe, how he struggled to accept it, how he struggled to trudge on unwilling feet. I watched him walk like a ghost who'd forgotten why he was haunting the place he'd died in, turning to leave. He almost made it to the door. His hand rested on the knob when he glanced back.

"You didn't promise it, παπαρούνα." His eyes met mine, and I could only cry when he said, "because I don't think you ever truly wanted it."

Then he was gone.

Simon Gastapolous, my own Simon Gatz, was gone. I was alone.

My words of love hung in the air above my broken promises. They dirtied my lips as I whispered them, and stayed like smoke after he left. Simon Gastapolous was gone. Like everyone I knew, everyone I loved, and everyone I'd wounded—he was crawling home, smeared with red from my touches. My hands had always been red, my heart had always been blue, and our love had always been purple.

When Simon left, I lit one final match. I gazed upon flickers of violence and beauty as I let one final thing burn. I'd burned my bridges, my reputation, my name. My love.

Now, the sliced edges of the Widow would curl and fade to ash before the arsonist who'd burned down the Whitehill empire.

"You knew the hero died, so what's the movie for?
You knew it still hurts underneath my scars
From when they pulled me apart
You knew the password so I let you in the door
You knew you won, so what's the point of keeping score?
You knew it still hurts underneath my scars
From when they pulled me apart
But what you did was just as dark
Darling, this was just as hard
As when they pulled me apart"

- Taylor Swift, "hoax"