"Conversation" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1879), stolen 2000, recovered 2005 - part of $30-45 million heist of three paintings (estimates vary)

Chapter Forty-Four

At Geraldine's age, there were things to be expected.

There were things no amount of money could slow; forces that couldn't be stopped, burdens that couldn't be removed no matter how much influence or power someone had. Things like age, death, decline. Things like nature, grief, and endings.

But Geraldine had never seemed her age.

She'd never seemed frail, or tired, or what others her age might've been. Geraldine was a redwood; she'd only gotten more formidable, invincible, and fire-proof with age. There'd never been a moment when I'd doubted her strength.

So when I turned, expecting the same sturdy roots and unshakeable bark, I was left confronted with the harshest reality when I saw different.

No one was invincible.

Geraldine wasn't invincible.

I blinked. But nothing changed.

I hazily met her eyes, as if seeing a ghost. They were the same shade as her son's, but not the same shade as August's; her blues were thinner, colder, icier. Or... they used to be. Now, they were strained and tinged with gray. Now, they sunk too far into her gaunt face. God, I realized something was wrong; the realization rattled my ribcage and spread like disease. As if the redwood had lost its leaves, its bare limbs left exposed and skeletal, Geraldine looked her age. She looked like a woman who'd stood at the top of the mountain, won against the gods, and now was headed back down the other side. Geraldine looked tired, and frayed; a paper doll that'd been played with for too long.

My anger took a step back as concern rushed to the front. Her name fell from my lips again, this time as more of a question.

"Geraldine?"

"Good morning, Eleanor," she greeted me too kindly. "I'm surprised to see you."

Her voice was strong. I would cling to that fact with the cold grip of denial for far longer than I should've.

"Yes, I-I wanted to stop by," I stuttered, still staring.

"I'm glad you did. The sunrise is always beautiful from this room. You're right on time." She gazed pensively around the sun-hungry room.

It was surging, ebbing, drowning me, spitting me out on sand, reclaiming me over and over. Her eyes were on the sea, but my eyes were only on her. I didn't understand. How was this the same woman from the fundraiser? How was this the same Geraldine? How was this the unshakeable monarch who'd reigned with a diamond fist?

I felt pinging speculation in my brain, ranking the possible reasons for her changes: the season, the flu, a lack of sun. Anything other than the worst possible options.

The worst possible options were...

No.

There was a hot coal in my stomach from my earlier discoveries. It burned, but I couldn't breathe fire. Not right now. No. No, I couldn't. I wanted to, I wanted answers, but I couldn't expose the ailing woman to that heat until I knew what ailed her. Not until she was strong enough to answer me the way I deserved to be answered. God, there was fear as I looked at Geraldine. It was enough to shove the coal to the side—at least for now—until my anxious concerns could be soothed.

My mouth opened but quickly closed. How did one word the questions I needed to ask? How did someone lower their guard enough to let accusations out?

"Mom?" The call echoed from somewhere else in the house.

Geraldine didn't seem surprised. She only took a deep breath and called back. It scared me further; she didn't used to have to summon such strength before. Clearly, so much had changed. "In here, darling!"

I turned just as Mr. Whitehill entered the sunroom with his children in tow.

Both Whitehill men wore identical expressions of surprise when they saw me, but his daughter didn't. She immediately split into glee, bursting with excitement. The older Whitehills were better at regaining their composure; the visibility of their thoughts was simply fleeting.

"Eleanor, I didn't expect to see you here," Mr. Whitehill politely remarked. He leaned over, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, sparing me a glance and the meager flash of a smile.

"Neither did I," I replied.

My chest was painfully tight. I remembered our conversation the day before. I remembered our conversations before that, too. I remembered it all.

"Good to see you, of course," he added.

I hadn't looked at his son yet. I was trying to avoid it. But I felt August by my side, and I met his eyes as he sat next to me, because it was impossible not to. It was impossible not to greet my best friend's knowing gaze.

But as soon as I did... as soon as I did, I saw the guilt. I saw it explode like a galaxy across his eyes, growing in response to the anger in mine. It caused my fury to resurge, slamming against the gates. I looked away, biting my tongue and chewing my words, knowing I couldn't.

I couldn't do it here.

Instead, I eyed Mr. Whitehill as he walked to the window. He stood like a monument. Watching over the newly emerged figures of the gardening team as they started their day, naturally unnatural in his imposed regality. He threw another look at me, this one as peculiar as the last, with his hands clasped behind his back. I would've thought him mighty and intimidating once. How I viewed him now—I dared not admit.

"Will you be staying for breakfast, Eleanor?"

Before I could answer, Eliza Whitehill burst out, "She has to!"

I sat startled as the young teen turned to me with accusations in her own eyes. "I haven't seen you in ages!" she chastised.

"Eliza," Mr. Whitehill admonished, but I shook my head, reassuring it was fine. It was true; I hadn't seen the youngest Whitehill since I'd visited her all those months ago, when I'd gone to see her after she'd tripped over the family dog. It had been ages.

"I'll stay," I announced. "I'm sure we have plenty to catch up on."

I was forcing a tight, familiar smile. I had painted myself calm but my thoughts still resided elsewhere. They weren't with the girl who looked busy choosing where to begin, or with her brother, who sat beside me like a guilty dog ordered to stay. No, my thoughts were on another Whitehill. I turned with those boiling pits in mind, looking at the woman still on the couch on my other side. She was sipping from a cup of tea now. Her elegance irked me.

I cleared my throat, and added, "If it's alright with Geraldine, of course."

Geraldine's smile was gracious when she nodded. She was always gracious. Yet, I wondered if she could see it in my eyes as I watched her; if she could see how much I'd bottled inside. I wondered if she could tell how badly I needed to talk to her, how badly it hurt; how it was crushing me more than ever before, even more than I could put into words. For a moment, just a moment, I thought she did. I thought she knew, because she was Geraldine—she could always tell things like that.

But, if she did, she didn't show it. She only sunk further into the cushions and turned to her granddaughter, striking up conversations about school plays and assignments of classic literature.

Not right now.

I turned to the wary man next to me again. August's eyes were still glued to me. I was trying my best, but I could only sit on so many hot coals, swallow so much anger, and placate so many questions. I needed answers. Hell, I needed answers in order to get other answers. I had to start somewhere. So as the other Whitehills chatted on the couch, I stood, and walked to the door, ordering the man I knew so well to follow me in words unsaid. He did.

I used to think he always would.

I didn't know, nor care, what the others thought as we slipped out. It wasn't unlike us; we were once inseparable.

August followed me through his grandmother's house with slow, heavy steps. I led him to the opposite end of the manor, out onto one of the many terraces, and into the cold chill of a western, winter morning. When he closed the door behind him and turned, his mouth was already open to spill apologies, or excuses.

And for a breath, in that moment before any sound could splatter, I stood there. Salt air stinging my nose, my stomach already turning—and I realized just how guilty he was.

It was August; he was always shouldering some burden or other—but not like this. Never like this. His guilt, when truly his to bear, was marked in colors unique to him; the colors or absence told me what was unfairly worn on his shoulders and what was born from his own doing. Some colors I hadn't seen in a long time—so rarely needed with his oft clean hands—but never before had they been as stark as they were now. Now, it only took one look at him to see the regretful hues splattered on his being, to dagger my heart and dissipate my illusions of his loyalty. One look was all it took to tell me he'd always known he was wrong; he'd known the entire time. He'd known he should've told me, known this wasn't the type of thing to forget to mention—but he hadn't.

He hadn't told me.

There'd been so many opportunities. All the times we'd seen each other since the fundraiser, all the calls, all the conversations. I hadn't seen him as much as I had before the theft, but I'd tried my best. Of course, it'd been hard with everything I'd been facing, but I'd seen him enough. No, August had no excuse. He should've told me, warned me, done something.

That split second ripped me apart. I stopped him before he could speak.

"Don't, August," I pleaded, desperation bleeding into anger and vice versa. "Don't. Just tell me what happened."

August froze, startled.

His mouth closed at my question, surprise once again tugging his lips and cheeks. Shock had a hard time staying visible on a Whitehill; their self-preservation kicked in to launch their poker faces and unshakeable demeanors. But something had splintered him; his shock became wariness, woefulness. August's blue eyes were solemn and sad the more he looked at me. Then, even more so, when they moved from me to the beautiful view around us. His hand raked through his hair. August took a deep breath; I could see it clambering through the cold air.

"Nothing," August said tiredly. "Nothing happened. She's just getting older."

"August," I snapped, warning him with every syllable I could muster. I was so angry it sounded like a snarl. I didn't have the patience for his vagueness; I knew there was more. His guilt was a flood pouring from his buckets all over the stones beneath us; I knew him too damn well to accept his lies now. "I just saw her a few months ago! She didn't look like... like that. I know she's not the youngest woman ever, but that isn't—that isn't normal for a matter of weeks! What did the doctors say?"

The drooped shoulders of her eldest grandchild told me how much he needed me right then—how much he'd probably needed me for months. Damnit, that only made me so much angrier. I could've supported him if I'd known. I could've held his hand, offered my shoulder, fought to comfort him—but I didn't; I hadn't known.

And now I did. August didn't have to say a word for me to know things weren't good.

But still, I needed explanations to fill the gaps, because I needed to know. I needed to know before I took up my spear for answers. I needed to hear him say it; to assign more definition to the vague sense of dread.

"The doctors say it's not unheard of after the amount of stress she's experienced over the past year. It likely weakened her immune system—which is already weak at her age—and she caught a cold a little after the fundraiser," he softly admitted.

Bile rose in my throat. It was late February. That was over two months of declining. Two months where I hadn't seen Geraldine, or heard any hint of what was happening from any of the Whitehills. They knew how much I loved her; they knew how much she meant to me, regardless of what'd happened. Why hadn't they told me?

"That's not nothing, August!" I searched for the right words, furious, but I couldn't find them. I huffed as I glowered at him, hands flinging to gesture him on. Impatience and irritation scraped every syllable. "Well? What happens next? When do they think she'll recover?"

August took a shuddering breath and dropped onto one of the chairs scattered around the terrace. His elbows fell to rest on his knees, while his eyes fixed on the sea again. He took another breath before speaking. I fought the urge to comfort him, to interrupt this cycle he'd brought me into. I fought it all.

I refused to acknowledge anything other than my anger. I couldn't.

"They don't know. It was just... just a cold. But she doesn't seem to be getting any better." His voice broke, head dropping. Everything about him drooped, peering into a pool of melancholy. "El, she just seems to be getting worse."

Anger rose again. It was a whip lashing out, lightning crackling and fury screaming. My voice was loud and unhinged, but I was detached, floating in red, because it was easier. It was easier than emerging from the depths. It was easier than seeing true colors. It was easier to be angry.

"Damnit, August! Why didn't you tell me?"

I flung my arms in the air again, gesturing wildly as my voice rose higher and higher. "I wouldn't have—" I broke off, blindly searching for words, "God, August, I wouldn't have—"

"What?" August demanded, wild eyes shooting to mine as he abruptly leapt to his feet. "You wouldn't have what, Eleanor?"

I gaped at him, words elusive, lungs empty now. "I..."

I faltered. There was anger plastered across his own expression, and it rendered me speechless. His words were harsh, intwined with bitterness, and so plagued by his own fury and hurt that it wrenched my heart and trampled my plans. I choked on my silence.

"You wouldn't have disappeared?" August flung when I didn't respond. He was lashing out the way he'd always seen me do. He filled the gaps, challenging my silence. "You wouldn't have fallen off the face of the earth? You wouldn't have what?"

"I—"

"No! You left, Eleanor! You were gone, and even when you were around, you were a goddamn ghost!"

The words were bullet holes tearing through my flesh, but August wasn't done. His hand pulled curls at the roots; his other palmed a chin trembling with anger. His gestures were as aggravated as mine, as restrained and mindless, as furiously heartbroken. He stood before me, chest heaving, staring at me as I stared back. For a moment, I saw him. He saw me, too.

Then, both of his hands came to cover his face—and for another moment, another eternity, I pitied the sea.

How many times had it seen humans fall apart? Seen them trip over their own selfishness, causing the decay of the very people they loved? How many times had it been a witness to the wildest of extremes; the sunset proposals, the retirement early mornings, the sun-soaked families in afternoon waves? The sunset loneliness, the drunken early dawns, the sun-drowned emptiness of afternoon endings?

I pitied the sea as it saw another ending.

For a few beats of my exhausted heart, we stood silent. When August exposed his face again, he was no longer calm and stoic like he always used to be. His expression was tight, drawn, and pale—everything I'd made him.

He was as miserable as I was, but he'd still reach for words now. He was braver than I'd ever been.

"Last year was shitty," he started painfully, "and I get it. But it was shitty for everyone else, too. It was hard, but it should've... it should've been okay. It should've been alright, because we were supposed to get through it together."

"I didn't know. I thought—"

He interrupted me, voice rising and breaking like the tides. "What didn't you know? And why not? Don't give me that, I was on your side. I always was! And goddamnit, Eleanor, I always will be, but you were supposed to come back!"

"August—"

"No! You were supposed to come back. I waited. I fought for you. I—" He turned his back to me. Wild golden curls flopped as he shook his head. "My dad told me what you said. You aren't coming back. And there's no other reason except for you. It was your choice. You said no."

He spun and strode past me to the edge of the patio, still keeping his back to me as he faced the water. There was a rumbling in his shoulders; his muscles looked as tight as the strings that used to bind us. There was a pain that bled from him into the air around us.

And me... I was reaching.

I was reaching, but I couldn't catch anything; it was all slipping through my fingers. The regrets, the apologies, the anger. The explanations. I had so much swirling around me, but I couldn't catch any of it. My hand fell back to my side. My mind was racing, my heart was breaking, my soul was emptying.

"I-I had to, August. I had to say no."

I hated how his back tensed even more at my words. I was still stumbling, still hiccupping, still stuffing truth into the holes of this sinking ship as if I could save it. "I c-can't come back."

August spun at my confession, eyes still wild, heart still bloody; feral, like an injured animal backed into a corner. "Why not?" he demanded.

I stood there, swaying. I stood there, staring. I stood there, eyes wide and tongue heavy, and I didn't know what to say.

"I just can't," I finally whispered.

Coward.

I felt salt choke my throat and collect in my lashes; I tried to hold it back, but drops fell, and I cried. August's face was stony as he watched tears wet my cheeks. It made me cry harder, as much as I held it back, as much as my chin trembled and my throat clenched.

"That isn't a reason."

"I know," I admitted miserably, sopping tears with my sleeve. "But I-I don't think I can tell you."

The chasm had never been greater. It'd never been so noticeable, so deep from the carving knives of my secrets, and now August finally saw. Now he realized. There was no going back. God, I didn't even have all of the reasons like I'd once thought I did. I didn't have enough to make me feel like it was worth it; only Geraldine held those final pieces. But now he knew. Now he knew how different I was, and how much had irreversibly changed.

So August was cold. The golden-haired, gallant prince of Whitehill was bleeding ice from the frost I'd forced him to weather. August was withdrawing as he regarded the distance created by splitting, rumbling ground, and I was crying, releasing pent-up pressure like the fault line I'd drawn between us.

"I needed you," he stated simply. "We all did. But you weren't there. Hell, you didn't want to be—and now you're not coming back."

"You didn't tell me."

"I shouldn't have had to. You should've been there to know."

The tears were silent, but oh, how they drenched me at that.

August's eyes took in our surroundings before meeting mine again. His trademark kindness and understanding were still there, but they were slashed to bits and shattered like promises on the ground. "Does it even matter now?" he questioned. "That I didn't tell you? Now you know, and you'll just blame yourself—like I always knew you would."

It's my fault.

"It's not your fault," he continued, tired now. Still stone, but weathered, like the Coliseum; a gladiator forced into battle over and over, yet somehow as loyal as ever to his empire. "It's not your fault, but you should've been there, Eleanor. You always should've been there."

Augustus Leon Whitehill turned and left me on the terrace after that. He left me alone with the ruins of us, the debris of our history under my feet, and the cloud of its dusty demise still coating my lungs. I stood alone, with only the birds to see me. With only the birds to hear my cries. With only the birds to jeer at my faults. With only the birds, the sea, and the secrets to judge me.

I remembered all the times I'd thought I knew everything; all the times I'd thought I was the one with the answers. Now, between Signore Eriberto's call, my cancelled confrontation with Geraldine, and the fall of an empire ruled by August and I, I knew I hardly had any answers at all.

I'd never had any answers to call mine. Maybe I'd never had anything at all to wear that label.

Was anything ever mine?

When I went back inside, finding the family now in the breakfast room, August was nowhere to be seen. Eliza mentioned the museum, and I nodded like it was fine, but it wasn't. Nothing was fine. Still, no one mentioned it then or anytime after. It wouldn't be said aloud.

No, Mr. Whitehill didn't say a word, of course, but he didn't have to. I knew he was aware of what'd gone down. I was sure he'd seen it across August before he left, because he could always see through his son. I knew he could see through me, too. I was too tired and injured to hide it. In fact, I was numb.

Numb was safe. Numb wasn't pain. Numb wasn't fear. Numb wasn't anything.

Numb was numb.

During breakfast, I sat beside a talkative teenager who poured her life updates into my closed cup, and I tried to be who I used to be. Eliza was once like another sister to me; I'd once been an idol to her. Now, she was nothing but another person I'd hurt, another member of the Whitehill family I'd betrayed, or angered, or misled. As she recounted what I'd missed over the long months, I was reminded she was yet another person I'd disappeared on.

Geraldine got tired through breakfast. She retreated for a nap when done, though the sun was still climbing the sky. Eliza went to the kitchen with Camila, who'd arrived while I was outside with August, and Mr. Whitehill went to his mother's office for museum business. Just like that, I was left alone.

I couldn't stand to be there any longer.

Through breakfast, everyone had looked at me with sympathy when they'd thought I wasn't looking. Everyone had eyed me with those peculiar expressions all morning, all unique yet the same, just different flowers from the same roots. I knew it was because, for the first time in months, my mask wasn't working. I was miserable, and struggling, and everyone knew.

I still needed to talk to Geraldine. I still needed answers. Before, I'd decided I couldn't ask her without knowing what ailed her, and now I did. Now I knew what was wrong. Was this the time? Was I ready?

No. She's tired.

I walked through the foyer, furious under the chandelier, and prepared to leave. And I almost made it. I almost left again, but I glanced to the stairs Geraldine had just retreated up, and I felt the punch of need slam through me.

I needed answers. If anything, I needed to confirm she was too tired or too sick to give them to me before I went home. It was incredibly selfish, but goddamnit, so was I. I needed at least an excuse for my empty hands when I'd come here so burdened with purpose.

I climbed the stairs, determined to confirm for myself why I couldn't get answers. Geraldine had to be able to give me what I deserved—if she wasn't, it'd be another day, but I dreaded the thought of waiting.

Geraldine's room was massive. Yet, so was everything else in her life, I thought. Most especially her wealth.

She was sitting on the bed when I entered, staring at the door. She had been expecting me. I could see it.

"Geraldine," I said.

She patted the bed beside her, her expression closed off. I sat beside her—again. My life was a series of endless cycles, a lifetime of being sucked into Whitehill whirlpools.

I thought I would be the one to speak first. I thought I would be the one to guide us, but Geraldine had learned long ago to assert herself first.

"Eleanor," she stated simply.

I'd hoped I wouldn't see it, but I did. It wasn't a trick of the light downstairs. Her eyes were dull, her breaths were shallow, and her frame was wilted.

"Yes?"

"It's okay if you go back."

My sternum absorbed the force of the blow from her words. I didn't understand—but that was a lie, because I did. Deep down, I did. I opened my mouth, the waiting outpour tugging at my teeth, but I didn't have a chance before she spoke again.

"It's also okay if you don't." She smiled weakly. "Don't apologize for the choices you've made. Nor the secrets you keep, or the truths you tell. Never apologize for any of it."

I wanted to ask her what she meant. Ask her what those words meant in light of recent months, and especially in light of what I'd learned. Did their meaning change under the metaphorical black light handed to me by Signore Eriberto? Were things waiting to be revealed like invisible ink drawn across walls, like blood spatters she'd covered up?

She didn't know that I knew.

She didn't know that I knew about the painting's secrets—but Geraldine still knew a lot without it.

Hell, I wondered what she knew of my own secrets, ones I didn't know if she'd discovered. Yet, I wasn't sure how much it mattered anymore. I had a dark feeling, like visible ink splattered across colors on canvas, that Geraldine had given up. The relinquishing of will was more detrimental than any virus in her system, any stutter in her heart, or any liquid in her lungs. I knew the light of a candle became easy to snuff out when no longer protected by panes of glass or the cupping of a hand, and I had a feeling Geraldine was holding her candle out in a storm, raising it to the mercy of the skies above.

I was speechless, but she was tired. I could see it. I'd never felt so blind before, so helpless and foolish, but now I was seeing more than I'd ever wanted. I was a witness to the fatigue pulling her further away; I watched as she willingly walked into it.

So I nodded. I forced myself to speak. "I won't," I promised.

That promise was made to be said—not made to be kept. Not by me. I was an apologizer down to my bones, a griever down to my soul, and a traitor down to my heart. A liar from my toes to my teeth. A collector of promises, but not a granter of the same; not a keeper of oaths, but a guardian of broken glass and frames.

Today is not the day to ask, or the day to learn. Today is not the day to find out.

I'd do it another day. I'd come here on a mission, but I'd been shocked by the humanity of my targets and the mortality of my loved ones. I'd been ambushed by death on all sides; feeling the weight of how much I had to mourn when the battle was eventually over. Now I knew how much I still needed to come to terms with losing one day. One day, because the war wasn't yet over. I needed to retreat, and find a way to get answers. I needed to let myself process what'd happened with August, and everything that'd happened at Damar, because right now I was numb again.

"I'll come back tomorrow, Geraldine. Get some rest."

She nodded, already halfway through the veil.

I stood and walked to the door. Against my better judgement, I stopped to look back. "I..."

I faltered. I stared at the woman I'd once worshipped, and summoned my armor, pressing metal over bloody wounds. I changed my words like I'd changed my loyalties. "I hope you feel better, Geraldine," I rasped.

Then I slipped out the door and fled the scene of various crimes. Maybe not all of them were mine, but enough were.

Enough of them were mine.