"Poppy Flowers" by Vincent van Gogh (1887), stolen 1977, recovered 1987, stolen 2010 - value $55 million

Chapter Thirteen

With October, came rain.

Torrents of rain, drenching the residents of the usually sun-soaked state in something entirely different. It was the type of rain that sometimes turned shy, occasionally becoming soft traces of quivering drops or coy clumps of mist. But, more often than not, it was pelting bullets of shockingly cold water. Local residents were bewildered. It was odd, and rather unexpected in the sheer amount of precipitation, but I would say it was overall welcomed.

For me, however, it wasn't as welcomed.

On one hand, the parched land could use a refresh, and the reservoirs certainly needed a boost. The rain dampened thirsty expanses of dusty valleys and replenished dwindling rivers. It was good in that aspect. Water shortages were a big deal no matter how ignored or reoccurring. I'd grown up hearing the complaints of restricted water use in my neighborhood, and had seen the outrage when fines were imposed when homeowners watered their massive lawns anyway. I had been to enough climate galas to be pissed off at my neighbors when it happened, and attended enough environmental support brunches to know how dire low water levels could be. One single bout of rain wouldn't fix the root of the issues, or prevent it from happening again, but it was a much needed downpour.

On the other hand, rain meant people were driven inside. Impatient tourists and bored locals looked for entertainment under roofs and concrete sanctuaries. Actually, this was more of a mixed bag than simply a negative. A lack of outdoor options meant the museum was packed—which was good. It also meant a lot of people around, many of whom seemed incapable of leaving me alone—which was bad. If I wasn't dealing with accusations, I was dealing with superficial sympathy.

"Another flood warning."

Another con to add to the list.

August's voice startled me out of my daze, causing me to blink confusedly before my office window. I'd been staring at the patter of drops washing the central courtyard; eyes stuck on the statue in the middle. The stony figure stood majestically in the rain, reaching to the weeping heavens, but I hardly paid the beautiful combination notice. I was admittedly distracted—with rain like that, came thoughts. They overflowed my brain and spilled out my ears like gutters sputtering out downpour. I loved the rain, but I didn't always have the right mindset for the melancholy storms could invoke.

"Flooding?"

"Yeah, for us and the counties nearby. The ground is so hard and dry that water can't seep into it fast enough. The rivers can also get overfilled, coasts can flood with the tides, and not to mention the wildfires cleared everything out so there's nothing to slow the water down," August continued from behind me. He rattled off his words a little too knowledgeably.

I frowned, turning to look at him. It was our usual scene. He was in a chair before my desk, an entirely too large coffee in hand, but his phone was in the other. "Are you reading an article about it or something?"

"Yeah, I got the alert and looked up the flood zones. Led me down a rabbit hole. Did you know about this 'megaflood' experts are saying could happen here? Not from these storms, but just in general. Why does this say we're 'overdue' for it?"

August was engrossed. He'd always craved knowledge at heart, something I found both endearing and woeful. He was the heart of an art museum, the soon-to-be-brain of a large business empire, and golden inside and out, but he loved the pursuit of something more. That only meant August was out of place, and it made me think of Carrie. The two people I was closest with were out of place the way some people just were, whether they knew it or not.

It also made me think of myself, but I was out of a place in an entirely different way. Whitehill was where I belonged, but outside forces didn't seem to agree with my soul-felt truth anymore.

"I don't know whether I should make fun of you or applaud you for your preparedness," I teased, turning back to the window. The sky was ugly in the threats it followed through on, but beautiful in its chaos. The rain had no intentions of letting up its heavy, angry hand.

"What are you doing?" August piped up again. His tone was slow and steady like the drizzle that flattened against the glass.

"What am I doing?" I repeated incredulously, my neck craning to look at him. I was thoroughly lost at his question. "What are you doing? You've been in here all day. Don't you have things to do? A museum to help run? Visitors to herd?"

I shivered, feeling the cold begin to creep beyond the panes of the window to invade my surroundings. It shouldn't be so cold. It was October, true, but it was southern California. Where was the sun I was promised? The sweater weather that never dipped below the sixties? The weather that barely scraped the edge of a chill, with never a chance of invoking shudders? A desert may be stark and frosty at night, but during the day warmth was supposed to flood my bones; not a sharp chill that promised something wicked.

"I am working," August protested, gesturing to his laptop perched on my desk. It'd hardly been touched.

I scoffed, fully turning away from the soaked scenery outside and settling at my messy desk. I knew what he was doing. He was hovering as inconspicuously as he could, keeping an eye on me like a fly on the wall. But for August, who burst at the seams with care and honor, his heart as true as a dog's, that wasn't very subtle at all.

But I hummed noncommittally in response, allowing him his white lies like he allowed me to have mine. Lies were a part of life. They were exchanged between all, stern earthy weights we traded, but we granted more to some than we did others. Sometimes only little pebbles of deceit that didn't slow anyone down; sometimes larger, heavier burdens. With those we find pieces of home with, we shouldn't give any more than the soft stones of fibs or small, gravelly missing truths. Loved one's pockets are hopefully never filled or weighed down by large collections of rocky deceptions. Give too many, even a continuous build of small stony chips, and the ever growing crush becomes noticeable. We keep our loved one's loads light, so they may keep moving forward. It hurt more when a lie was given from someone who wasn't a stranger.

With others, we could more easily grant boulders and watch as they drown.

I'll take your pebble, and hope you won't crush under the weight of what I've already given you in return.

Slowly, the clicks of computers accompanied the sound of the rain as I restarted my work and August begrudgingly joined in. Several times, I watched as he wanted to say something but thought better of it, abandoned thoughts fizzling in silence. August always thought twice. But, in truth, I was surprised at just how distracted he was. August always found time for loved ones, of course, but he was a strong worker. The man had an admirable work ethic; he always got the job done. However, he looked as distracted as I was right then.

I decided to let him stew.

And I snapped off my own distracted thoughts. I allowed myself to become consumed by my tasks, because I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be allowed to do them. I gladly submerged in the final touches of an exhibit opening in November and the ever growing list of fundraiser requirements. That event was also a few weeks away. It was the year's main attraction, and promised either a turn of the tide for Whitehill or a final stamp on the death certificate.

No pressure. Fix the mess. Don't break anything else. Just deal with it.

My other exhibit proposal had also been approved by Geraldine; the one I'd been working on the fateful night the Widow had vanished. That exhibit was scheduled to open late the following year, but until then, there was plenty to do to ensure every detail was exactly as I wanted. A lot had to be coordinated to make it exactly how it needed to be in order to fit the high standards of Whitehill. One year wasn't very long to get it all done. For some museums, exhibits were planned months in advance; for others, it could take several years of careful crafting. I'd seen exhibits take over five years to be born, but ours wouldn't get nearly as long to stew before being unveiled to the public. The team would be busy, as we'd been with every exhibit that'd come before, and as we'd be with every exhibit in-between.

I only hoped I'd get to be a part of it.

"El," August said quietly. My hands stilled on the keys; he'd interrupted angry emailing to an incompetent caterer.

I guessed he'd thought long enough about what he wanted to say. I looked up expectantly, ignoring the soft look in his eyes that felt too much like a reminder of the world outside my office—too much like a reflection of ticking threats, warning my remaining time was dwindling down.

"How are you doing?"

Everyone needs to stop asking me that.

"Good."

August's wary look as he weighed my answer was a familiar one.

I'd been asked that question a lot lately. A lot. Enough times I'd started to suspect I said 'good' or 'hanging in there' in my restless sleep. But, truthfully, how I was doing was complicated. The first of it was that my parents had called, and it'd been a messy tug-of-war between painful arguing and requesting comfort from them. My legal team was also going feral in their belligerence, snapping and snarling at the FBI, but mom and dad would handle that. They'd have to; I wouldn't be getting involved any more than absolutely needed. I hadn't gotten my stuff back yet either, an affront according to the lawyers, and I felt alone and vulnerable without my devices. Everything added up to a count higher than I could reasonably handle. One good thing had happened, though. After an impressive search, with gear and tech used to scope out every available nook and cranny, my apartment had eventually been deemed clear of nabbed paintings. Catarina Gallick had left with promises to get in touch as the investigation progressed. I'd held back from slamming the door, but I'd sweetly informed her she could go through my lawyers from then on.

Speaking of lawyers.

The museum's legal and public relations teams were having a tricky time making a decision, and it was only making things worse. On one hand, standing by staff and advocating for unified trust in the team was good; that would be me, and 'my side'. Supporting me could eventually prove to be beneficial—solidarity would hopefully demonstrate we were a unbreakable team of esprit de corps, and corroborate claims the museum had no doubt every employee was true in their loyalty. But on the other hand, the museum had lost an extremely crucial piece. There had to be answers. Online jeering was ruthlessly threatening to make a mockery of the museum's reputation due to incompetence. The Whitehill family faced being labeled blind and corrupt if they weren't suspicious of it being an inside job.

Still, their indecisiveness was starting to look worse than any words they could release to the curious public.

August was staunchly on the 'support Eleanor' side. His mom was, too. His dad was still struggling to come to terms with the painting's continued absence, overcome concerns about Geraldine, and remove himself from the knee-deep battles with board members. He wasn't able to do anything but stay neutral. I understood his stance, because under my internal muck of messy emotions and fear, I truly wanted what was best for the museum. It would hurt to separate from Whitehill, or feel deserted by the community I'd burrowed myself in, but the museum was suffering. It needed time to rebuild.

The board members themselves were eager to pin a name to the wall, but too cautious of what my name carried to say anything outright. They were people I knew, people my family knew, but they were also people who knew how fast empires could fall. Losses had to be cut. They slithered, snakes in the grass waiting to strike if I gave them a chance.

August and I were interrupted before he could challenge my answer. The voice rang out from the door, confident and comfortable.

"She's not doing good, Gus, don't let her fool you."

August and I both looked to see who'd arrived in such a bold manner. But who else would call out my superficiality, other than a celebrity? Who else would recognize it so quickly?

"Lena," August warmly greeted, standing up to give her a brief hug. Lena was tightly bundled, looking snugly dressed in the slightly over-the-top way Californians tended to do when the weather dipped. A long plaid overcoat was her outermost layer but it covered several more underneath. Her wavy curls were tucked into a loose ponytail that screamed effortless chic, and the ensemble was finished by boots I would kill for.

"I love your boots," I said, skipping the greetings altogether. Lena looked down with a beam, twisting a foot to show them off.

"Thanks, they're new!"

"Send me a link. Or, actually, send it to Carrie as a hint for my Christmas present." I leaned forward, grinning, before shaking my head. "Never mind, I can't wait that long. Send me the link."

"Remind me before I leave and I'll send it. But, stop distracting me! Ellie babe, you're not doing good. Stop lying to August," she warned, snapping into seriousness. She dropped into the chair next to him, and my workday was officially screwed.

Lena continued, "You can't say you're doing good when I can hear the gossip from here. And you've got that wrinkle on your forehead."

"What wrinkle?"

"What gossip?" August frowned, staring between Lena and I. A dark cloud to match the ones outside settled over him immediately, and he wasted no time getting to the point. "There's more than what you told me?"

"More online stuff?" Lena jumped in. "No, that's slowing down. World keeps turning, life keeps going to shit, society's burning—the usual. No, I'm talking about the employees here."

She returned August's unsure grimace, her brows scrunched and mouth pursed in confusion. "You're not part of it?"

He looked offended at that. Blue eyes sparked and his posture stiffened as he turned defensive.

"You think I would gossip about Ellie?"

"No, of course not. But you're here at the museum, aren't you? You don't hear it? See it? You're part of the team!"

"See what?" he asked crossly, exasperated and overwhelmed. His hand ruffled flat curls. "I've been with her or family since everything happened. I'm not catching up with people in the break room or chatting over coffee. What the hell is happening now? Just say it."

"Ah." Lena turned to me, face serious. She briefly glanced down at the coffee in August's hand, and the coffee cup next to my computer. "Clueless."

I shrugged, already feeling my mood lightening and my shoulders lifting despite the subject of conversation. I marveled at how easy they made it all feel; we were talking about the ugly chatter that rang through the halls of Whitehill, but somehow I felt okay. I could see through August's barely held composure and Lena's thin facade of humor, but I focused on the good. Like the fact they were still there with me.

"What have people been saying?" August demanded again, his intensity aimed at me. He wasn't willing to accept a lacking answer like the ones I'd provided so far. He knew the foundational details of the investigation and my current life events, but I'd kept the emotional aftershocks far, far away. Lena looked to me as well. She was waiting for me to fill in what she'd apparently heard and noticed just by walking down the halls. Celebrities were either exceptional at reading a room or spectacularly awful at it. There was never an in-between.

"Well, I haven't exactly been hanging in the break room either," I started calmly, "But general rundown is Samantha had her baby, Donnie got a new car that's too loud, and Wilma wants to transfer to the advertising team."

"And everyone thinks Ellie did it," Lena added helpfully.

"What?" August exclaimed furiously. "They actually think you did it? Why?"

"Well—"

"I didn't think anyone here would actually believe that shit! This is just some witch-hunt by the FBI to cover their asses, to take the heat off of them for not finding the painting. They should've found it by now, or at least found a real lead! It's all the board and their bullshit, too, I bet."

"August, it's fine," I soothed. "They can think what they want. As long as the job gets done and the museum stays open, I don't care."

"What do they think you even did with it? We searched the entire building and they cleared your apartment. You were here with the cops that night."

"Actually," Lena piped up again, "there was a really interesting article I read last night about you, El. It mentioned that Klimt painting found a couple years ago. You know about it, right? The article went on about how you could've hidden the painting to come back for it later, and how maybe you know places to hide that aren't well-known. It said with your experience here, you're one of the few people who would get away with it."

Oh, boy. August and I both knew what she was talking about; the art world had been thrown for a loop with that one. Nearly twenty-three years after a famous painting was stolen from a gallery in Piacenza, gardeners clearing ivy found lost secrets in an external wall of the building. Behind a metal panel, in a black bag and all alone for two decades, resided a painting thought lost forever. A painting worth tens of millions of dollars, at that.

"So, they think I stashed it?" I confirmed, settling back in my chair. Of course they did, I wasn't surprised. That was the only thought process that'd make sense for the investigators to have at this point. Searching my apartment had covered their bases in case I had found a way to smuggle it out, and ensured it wouldn't slip under their noses in the most obvious of places. But the FBI knew as well as I did any criminal worth their salt wouldn't bring stolen loot to their own house. However, suspicion I knew the museum well enough to find a place they wouldn't discover in their search wasn't all that far-fetched. The museum was my playground, my hidden garden, just like it was Geraldine's. And with the broken fragments of our lamenting lady's frame found on scene, a loose painting would be easier to hide than a bulky, rigid rectangle.

"I guess," Lena said. "There's a lot of speculation about what you did with it."

I shrugged lightly. "Sorry, but the only thing I stash is Italian candy bars. Want one?"

The Klimt painting mentioned by Lena was featured in chapter five (it's real!). It's a pretty wild ride of a theft/recovery timeline, including suspicions it was actually stolen months before and replaced with a forgery (which was then stolen). I highly suggest glancing at even just the wikipedia page of the painting to get an idea of that rollercoaster.

Also, like I did with ILAD, I find myself splitting chapters. It seems that no matter how much I plan, the book itself decides more than I ever could. I would like to ask a question though, since Wattpad grants writers unique avenues of communication with readers. How do we feel about long chapters? Often, I allow the chapter to run until I reach the break I want. But, my chapters are significantly longer than most Wattpad chapters. Do they need more of a split? Thoughts? Opinions?

- H