"Le pigeon aux petits pois" (Pigeon with peas) by Pablo Picasso (1911), stolen 2010, unrecoverable (thief proclaims to have thrown in trash, along with four other works) - value $23 million

Chapter Six

"Oh? You've fallen in love with the foyer already?" I teased.

The tiniest tilt of his lips rewarded my jab. "I can appreciate a good building."

Touché. I said the same.

For the most potentially significant of tiny moments, I returned his smile, feeling and unmoving as I looked at him. He was returning my gaze just as brazenly as I gave it. His lips were still holding their slight curve and his eyes were still dark. And again, something sparked in those eyes, and hot vexation pounded beneath my skin. I still couldn't read what swirled beneath those perilous shields of his, and part of me both recoiled and yearned at the realization.

But despite my incredibly wracked nerves and flighty hesitation, I was grounded for the barely whole moment the two of us reached a tentative truce. It couldn't be described as a full respite, just short of being so, but long enough to feel how close it was to achieving it.

"So, we going to the exhibits or what?"

Simon and I both looked at the forgotten analyst standing expectantly before us. I cleared my throat and hurriedly stepped away, jerking back the control I'd once had. The same control I clung to with every ounce of strength I could muster; the control I'd used as a buoy for the last few days and needed to float. I put back on the mask I wore so often it'd become more comfortable than my own skin, and took another step away.

"Of course," I said.

I led them down the first hall with the facade still crafted to fit. Our truce was gone, as left behind in the museum's foyer as the sculpture it was born before.

Attraction's not stronger than fear or worry.

Attraction at first sight was a distraction at best. Physical attributes could be symmetrical and pleasing, but could not sway me from the path I treaded alone.

We walked on.

The walls of this particular route were speckled with small pieces from a local artist, some of the first revealed to visitors before reaching the museum's interior. The works told a story; each painting was a continuation of the previous scene shown. The setup was similar in nature to the stages of the cross, but instead of religious depictions set in wood or metal, the paintings were works of vivid watercolors and dark charcoal. One side of the hall showed the watercolors, brilliant brushstrokes forming lush jungles and tropical oases. In each of the paintings, somewhere tucked amongst the colors of the variegated works, were halted charcoal strokes forming an out-of-place pigeon. The pigeon was startling and distracting once noticed, so odd and harshly obvious among the soft jewel tones. The charcoal did not belong amongst the colorful background, nor did the bird fit the environment depicted.

But as the hall went on, each pigeon grew less and less defined until nothing but a penciled sketch among the watercolor, as if the artist forgot to color it or ran out of time. Perhaps it suggested the creator was too occupied with the surroundings to fulfill the entire potential of the work, and so resulted in the neglect of the pitiful bird.

Or perhaps it suggested something else entirely.

On the other side of the hall, was the inversion of the bright watercolors. Instead of vibrant greens and brilliant blues, dark strokes of ebony and slate created the harsh lines of a dulled city. Instead of a pigeon, a watercolor parrot. The parrot was a glimmering emerald or a radiant ruby among the bleak tones of its surroundings. And just like the pigeon, the parrot lost its color until nothing but faint lines at the end of the hall.

Beck stopped to read the plaque when we entered. He meandered down the hall, taking in each one in a determined zig zag. Simon didn't even glance at the plaque; he barely turned to look at the art that beckoned on the walls. Instead, a subtle look of irritation grew across his face.

"Beck, this tour will never end if you stop for every single one," Simon scolded, moving frustratedly down the hall in choppy steps behind him. Beck looked back, almost bashful as Simon barely avoided running into him.

"Sorry. Just taking a look at what we're guarding. We can move on."

"Don't be sorry." I shook my head, stepping up behind them. "You should know what you're guarding. More than just a vague idea of what it looks like. It will also help you know if something's different or out of place. But there's nothing wrong with just wanting to look at it. It's here to be seen."

Simon shifted beside me, but I kept my eyes on Beck, who shot me a crooked, grateful grin.

"Thank you. Last time I was here, the crowds sort of carried us along. We didn't get a lot of time to spend with the works. But still, let me know if we need to move a little faster. I can always just look up them up online," Beck admitted. I shook my head again.

"Online pictures won't capture it completely. Just look and don't worry about it. You're here, so why waste the opportunity? My job is to show you the exhibits until Owen is ready to meet. Not just the layout, but what we're here for. We're here for this." I gestured to the walls.

"For half-finished works?" Simon asked abruptly. He gazed uninterested and almost accusingly at the closest painting.

"Half-finished? None of these are incomplete."

"Then where are the birds?"

Simon waved his hand at the missing parrot, and my brow raised, arched in pointed accusation.

"You didn't read the name of this setup, did you?"

Simon's lips flattened in retaliation. "Care to enlighten me?"

His eyes were challenging as they met mine, his face hard and unflinching at my steady stare. I crossed my arms before my chest, my own expression falling into schooled stone. If it was a game, he would know I excelled at it. If it wasn't, he'd learn anyway.

"'Assimilation'. Works by Gabriella Chavez, an immigrant who moved to a new country as an adult," I informed, coating my words with an entitled air I refused to shake. "It's titled 'Assimilation'."

Something flared in those tar eyes before Simon turned completely to the wall, his back to me and his shoulders stiff. I couldn't see his face anymore, and was unable to tell what he was thinking. What would I see if I could? Embarrassment? Defiance? Shame?

"A loss of color," Beck acknowledged from across the hall. Beck's eyes were glued to the watercolor jungle and the draining frame of one of the pigeons. He slowly turned to me with a knowing gaze and a blink of dazed solidarity. "A loss of identity."

I nodded slowly. "She made herself a blank slate to fill with the materials of her surroundings, and lost who she was in the process. It's about losing yourself to fit in, whether in a new country or a new street." I turned to another painting, looking at the scratchy lines that somehow portrayed a pigeon's loneliness and confusion. The sketches of a city bird lost in a 'lion-eat-lion' world and feeling impossibly out of place. I couldn't personally relate with the journey and trials of immigration, but art was about empathy.

Life was about empathy.

"Is all art so obviously metaphorical?" Simon suddenly asked, his back still turned.

His voice wasn't mocking or judgmental, but the underlying tones were still unidentifiable; I could tell what it wasn't, but not what it was. I scowled at him, knowing he couldn't see me but hoping he felt my gritty annoyance anyway.

"No. It's the point of the plaques. They explain the metaphor if there is one, and give other information if there isn't." Heat coated my words and flared up my neck. "And if it's so obvious, then why'd you ask where the birds were?"

Beck whistled lightly, unable to hide the appreciative smirk he flashed me or the laugh in his eyes. He was riddled with mirth at my cross words directed at his boss. Simon himself didn't reply or further acknowledge the paintings, only wordlessly making his way to the end of the hall and disappearing into the next exhibit.

I huffed and began to follow, knowing Simon wouldn't appreciate any of what lay ahead. Beck leaned in for one last close look before falling into step beside me. We passed another painting before he spoke. His humor had faded, and his tone was more serious than I'd expect.

"I apologize for him, he's acting like an ass. Pardon my saying so, and please don't take this as reason to doubt us, but it's our first big case in a while." He furtively glanced towards me, gauging my reaction before adding, "But we're more than capable of protecting the works. Believe it or not, this case is both a welcome break and a much-needed challenge. It's not the type of case we usually take, but it's a good fit for us. We're looking forward to taking it on. He's just a little on edge because of it."

I turned, looking at the serious but kind expression of the man next to me. His words were earnest and protective; it was increasingly clear Beck and Simon were friends beyond the scope of a professional relationship. I didn't know them well enough to slap on a 'besties' label like August and I, but I could see the protective gleam in Beck's eyes. It was more than an uneasy coworker practicing damage control, it was clearly a friendship that'd either aged to permanency or quickly matured to comfort.

"You don't have to apologize for him," I sighed. "He's not the first to dismiss art and he won't be the last. And I know, I read all about what happened."

Beck's expressing morphed, changing into surprise. "You did? Then you know about our history?"

"With your old CEO? We're all aware."

Beck nodded. He seemed relieved. "I think Simon is worried your bosses don't know and will pull the plug when they find out. I'm glad to hear that won't be the case. If you know our history, you know our track record. We're good at what we do, Eleanor. One bad apple doesn't ruin the orchard."

My head tilted as I examined the confident analyst beside me. The conversation struck me as odd, even with Beck's eagerness to defend his friend's actions.

"That's very forthcoming of you. Are you concerned what I'll tell the Whitehills?"

"Should I be concerned? I'm not sure there's much to tell, other than I'm confident in the company, and our CEO is determined to succeed." Beck gave me a lopsided grin and a wink. "I'm not sure I've said anything incriminating yet, Ms. Vaycker."

At that, I couldn't help but laugh, bursting with sound right as we stepped into the exhibit. It bounced in the open room, echoing off the marble floors and causing Simon to look up from his stance before a canvas. His eyes flickered between Beck and I before dropping to the smile on my lips. The laugh halted on my tongue even as it still echoed, and Simon looked away, back to the large work in front of him. However, I refused to grant him a break from my relentlessness. Whether he liked it or not, he'd know what he was there for. Helping the museum wasn't just patrols or keeping tabs on the paintings, it was knowing why the paintings were at risk, and why anyone cared at all.

Another part of me, the arrogant and prideful part, wanted to make him like art. It wanted to recruit the masses to care just as much as I did. It was a determined desire etched into my soul, an eagerness to show the world art was for everyone, even him, and it clashed with my current purpose.

"Arnold Belanger. 1954. He used acrylics to make the ridges," I said, coming up behind him.

Belanger's work was a large piece taking a decent chunk of wall space, and the first in our 'Texture in Mediums' exhibit. His work was highly experimental in color combinations; it seemed more reminiscent of a modern era with its abstract clashes of ridges and bumps.

Simon's eyes stayed on the painting, but I was acutely aware of the stiffness he held beside me. I made sure to stay a polite distance away; I was clearly struggling to find the same footing I'd been able to find with Beck. I begrudgingly wanted to, however. He was going to be a big part of the museum for a while. I also wanted, needed, to keep an eye on him and his company's influence.

It was frustratingly and yet unavoidably quiet. Simon was still looking at Belanger's work, so I took my own time silently examining it. I already knew it so well; I was convinced I'd know every detail down to the tiniest dot even fifty years from then. I couldn't help but remain curious about Simon, instead. My focus strayed from the painting to catch on the man beside me. From the corner of my eye, I watched his own trace over the colorful curls and swooping designs until he finally shared his thoughts.

"I could have painted that," Simon commented flatly, gazing up at the work.

Against my better judgement, I almost laughed. I didn't think it was meant to be funny, but imagining the borderline surly man before me dabbing paint onto a canvas was an image I wasn't prepared to see. I choked back the urge to impolitely guffaw and turned away.

"But you didn't, did you?" I responded. I was still fighting a cruel grin, battling levity at his absurd reflection. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it in regards to art, but coming from him, it was almost as priceless as the works on our walls.

Simon only shrugged begrudgingly and shuffled over to the next work. I smothered my reaction and dropped it, following his lead. For the next half hour, the three of us made our way through two exhibits with determined exploration. I threw in extra information when I thought it was relevant, pointing out the high-value and therefore high-risk pieces, and commenting on the flow of guests we usually saw throughout the day. After a while of moving with the men, I realized they were taking in much more than the art.

The men periodically narrowed in on cameras, both the ones in visible locations to deter temptations and the ones hidden so well only a trained eye could spot them. Catching on, I pointed out the rest that were entirely hidden. They both listened intently when I talked about the art or the museum itself, taking what information I provided and logging it in their minds. I saw their mapping of the building, the attention to blind corners, and the locations of guards being meticulously acknowledged and absorbed. I enjoyed the conversations of the works more than the technical talk, as painfully necessary as they both were. The banter about the works was lighter, less of a reminder, and much easier for me.

At one point Beck commented he'd wanted to touch the textures in the first exhibit, and had found the temptation too grating. I understood. It was hard to look at the various textures and not want to run one's fingertips over them; there was an urge to feel the sensory variations imposed on canvas or statues. It was a common issue we had among guests. He was pleased, then, when I pointed to the interactive portion of the exhibit. Art museums weren't always things hung on the walls, like science museums weren't only lectures and fossils.

Even so, they seemed to enjoy the Gold Rush exhibit the most. Beck didn't look like he was fighting a battle with his curious inner child anymore. In that exhibit, Beck seemed engrossed with the posters explaining the scattered artifacts of the Rush, and dutifully studied the historical facts detailed on the walls. Even Simon looked interested in the haunting photos of desperate miners and the determined gazes of hopeful settlers.

I watched as both reacted in varying degrees to the gripping part of the exhibit found deeper in, the section that illustrated challenging hardship, crumbled ecosystems, and failed communities. Beck's expression turned grim and subdued as he read the first-hand accounts on the walls, while Simon became withdrawn and detached. I noticed he lingered occasionally, staring into the tired faces of failed pioneers for a few moments too long, making me wonder what he saw. But then he would blink, look away, and make his way to the next one, and I'd brush it off as best I could.

The Gold Rush exhibit was a source of pride for me; it was a meticulously planned combination of art and strategically placed artifacts from the era. The room exemplified our title as both a museum and a gallery, with clearer lines guests could distinguish between art and history as they explored. While art and history were intrinsically connected like veins threaded in lungs, sometimes distinctions allowed separation and analysis of one before stacking the concept of the other. Just like it was difficult to truly grasp the impacts of war without first exploring the 'before', sometimes art needed to be separated from history to learn the impact one caused on the other.

When we got to the portion of the exhibit that dipped into art both of and from the era, both men listened as I told what I knew of the artist, the work, and the circumstance. Their expressions were curious, and I was pleased to see even Simon had a dip of concentration between his brows.

I could sense it even if Simon buried it—he was not the cynic he made himself out to be.

Owen caught up with us near the end of the exhibit, his face hardened and posture rigid as he shook hands with the men from Riverwide. For the first time since the Widow's disappearance, I thought of how he must be doing. What a blow it must've been, a true smack in the face to the years of hard work he'd poured into protecting Whitehill to lose the painting. And then, though he'd agreed with the Whitehill family about the need for extra eyes, and ultimately welcomed the help, to have to graciously accept Riverwide and the changes they'd bring. To step aside on the job he'd held for years – and accept it hadn't been enough. That his teams hadn't been enough. That he hadn't been good enough. I felt sorry for the man.

He was great, but the heist was better.

Simon and Beck seemed to realize this as well, and made their presence as unimposing as they could as the three spoke. It didn't change what they were there to do, though, and the unspoken words hung clear in the air and sensitively buried in the grips of their handshakes. When all was said and done, Riverwide was there to do what Owen and his team couldn't. Simon and Beck could offer him respect and recognition for the years Whitehill had been a safe place, a sanctuary for the works within the walls, but they couldn't offer him any more than that. Not when the Widow had been snatched from its nook, and not when at the end of the day, it hadn't been enough.

Owen apologized for the delay, and I handed the reins of the tour over to our head of security with a sense of relief, and yet a curious feeling of disappointment. I chalked it up to the contagious and poisonous fear of missing out, something I'd struggled with quite frequently growing up. Perhaps I hadn't shaken off as many childhood traits as I'd previously assumed.

"Thank you for the tour, Eleanor," Beck said graciously, shaking my hand again. "I look forward to working with you and everyone else here. It was great meeting you."

"It was nice to meet you too, Beck," I replied. I granted a smile, shaking off the reluctantness I'd held earlier and allowing a genuine response. I still wasn't sold on their being here, but Beck was nice, and it was hard to deny the bright warmth of his presence. Some people were gentle extroverts, slipping their way to a place beside others with wide smiles and kind words. Some were perhaps not so gentle, but Beck fell into the former category.

Others, like Simon Gatz, straddled the line of introvert and extrovert. Maybe he was like that because of where he was, the people he currently stood next to, or the pressure of the job; maybe he was a completely different person in different circumstances. Maybe Simon was a boisterous extrovert when he wasn't at work, or a shy introvert that preferred listening when with friends. But there, in the unsteady aftermath of a rocked museum, he was intentionally withdrawn with a barely held bold tongue. It was a paradoxical presentation of self.

I turned to said ambivert and felt my smile change as I met his eyes. I refused to lose my smile, keeping the widened stretch of my cheeks and the jut of my jaw, but I knew it wasn't the same one I offered Beck. It was an uneasy acknowledgment, unsure what to make of the troublesome or perhaps troubled CEO before me, and extremely wary of the consequences. Simon didn't seem like he truly was the person he acted as; even in the short time we'd spent together, I could see the cracks in the image he displayed, and the suggestions he wasn't really the callously stiff, professional man he'd been that day. It felt like a mirage, and it made me nervous.

While I knew it was always better to trust a person's actions over possibly preconceived notions, and Simon's actions tended to show a very specific portrayal of himself that was hard to dismiss, it just felt odd. I trusted my gut, and my gut told me there was something more.

I had no misguided notions or fantasies of 'fixing' him or anything of the sort. Rather, I was so distrustful and hesitant of everyone around me that any hint of dishonesty, or intentional shows of action, felt like signs. Large billboard signs as glaring red as the curtain opening his act. He gave a hell of a performance, award-worthy even, but I wasn't convinced. Who was he, really?

What did it mean for me, and for Whitehill? What did it mean for our weeping Widow?

[If you are reading this book after I posted the bonus chapters, and have already read them, you can ignore this paragraph]. Remember those bonus chapters I mentioned previously? That I decided not to publish and removed from the lineup? Well, I'm going to publish them in the place I originally intended. I will mark it as bonus material, and reconsider its status when I begin the deep editing process, but for now it will have its own little place in the book. I have to remind myself this is technically a first draft, and I have room to experiment with what I want to include. And so, the bonus chapters are actually from a new POV—I hope you enjoy.

Also, I was curious if I could find a work from the Gold Rush to attach to this chapter—instead, I was quite surprised to see a museum actually had a "Art of the Gold Rush" exhibit before! I wasn't surprised that regional museums would do so, but the National Museum of American Art in Washington, D.C. did an exhibit 1998-1999. I found out weeks after writing this chapter! Apparently great minds think alike; I had even called it "Art in the Gold Rush", so really only one word difference. It's wild to me that I absolutely didn't do any research on that particular aspect of the book and the possibility of a similar exhibit (really had no idea), and now I'm realizing I probably should have!

Feels kind of gratifying to know it's not an entirely oddball idea for an exhibit. Also a little bummed it's not that unique.

- H