"Rest on the Flight into Egypt" by Titian (c. 1512), stolen 1995, recovered 2002, value - $12.5 million

Chapter Thirty-Nine

That pivotal night had started something as unstoppable as an avalanche, as world-shaking as a fault line, and as fiery hot as the sun that blessed us. Something new was dawning over the ruinous end of an era—believe me, I welcomed it with open arms.

But change was a fickle creature.

There were times she was shy, and others she was emboldened to be brazen and unapologetic. Change was a bull; tiptoeing through china shops or thundering through temples, switching course with the ease of a river. Change was a friend. An enemy. A flirt. She infected my life again with her chronic disease, consuming me like a parasite under my skin. Except this time, I wished to tell her, this time she was welcome. My lips might splatter with blood, but it wasn't a rattling cough of poisoned pasts—it was a bleeding heart, filling me with ruby red. My hands were stiffening to stone, but it wasn't caused by death, or ice, or paralysis. It was the stilling of anxious flutters; an infection of peace passed by touch and proximity. It was my fingers gaining strength as they were warmed by his hand clenched around my own. My trembles were fading from his gentle touches and iron holds.

This time, I embraced change. She was a foe I welcomed back, a nemesis I embraced, despite the lingering blues from her previously beaten fists on my skies. She'd returned for another round. Her teeth tugged gloves tight, eyes wild, arms raised, but I had no fight this time. This time, I laid down for her, and she dipped brushes in red and went over the blues, her fist loose around a palette, instead.

Yet, as much as she forcefully flexed her control, she wasn't everywhere. She didn't touch everything.

In fact, most changes weren't very apparent in the light.

Life still treaded mostly untouched during the slim hours of winter sun. Our days were still spent separate; Simon toiled at the museum, and I hid anywhere else, avoiding it, like it was the cure that'd kill me. No, the days themselves didn't bear many indications of drastic change. It was only if we were lucky that we could steal slivers of daylight, and grant them to the other, but those days were few and far between. Our responsibilities often boarded the windows too tight for luck to reach in.

It wasn't the days where change resided—it was the nights.

It was the nights where change had scratched her name the most, where she'd let herself bloom to a full, frilly glory. It was the nights where she trekked with nimble feet over frozen grounds, hands leaving traces of gold on bare bark, introducing something new to the winter evenings and blowing it from spark to flame. It was the nights where she danced with thunder in her feet and hail in her hair; where she whirled with sleet on her shoulders and gales in her ears, feral and free like life intended.

Our nights...

Our nights were ours.

Nights were spent dressed in blushing reds from each other's touches, scarlet blooming from head to toe; a crimson cloak thick enough to hide daggers and wounds. Evenings were passed warmly content, enveloped in comfortable embraces, cozy while the cold blues peered in with jealous longing. Nights were stolen. Hidden. Hoarded by these greedy hands of mine, and cradled in those unflinching hands of his. Some nights were rampaged by flames we'd stoked, becoming so feverish we could stand only the shy touch of fingers while we huddled before flickering screens. Others were consumed by painting purples on landscapes I'd forgotten could be anything other than brown. Nights were silk sheets and whispered names; hours marked by conversations of ocean-worthy depths, and silences that didn't need to be filled.

Nights were what the days bled for, what they died for, and what I waited for, yearning and impatient through blistering mornings and musty afternoons. Nights were mine to share with the man who never ran. Even the nights I was alone, a lone pillar in my bed, the space he'd carved for himself in my mattress was deep enough for me to bury my sins into. To await his return, feeling where he'd lay beside me, and hear his echoes.

We were my best kept secret, my proudest thing to wear on my sleeve, and everything in between.

But of course, though we'd submerged ourselves in these waters, we weren't far from shore yet. We didn't launch ourselves into riptides; we were taking it slow. Night by night, we took another step, and swam another mile. Night by night, we ventured further from the coast, and went deeper into the unknown. More and more, our free time was given to each other; our days eventually encroached upon, too. More and more, change solidified in the light. And before we knew it, we'd surrendered to something greater than ourselves.

Does a traitor ever truly surrender?

Days turned to weeks.

But even then, change still wasn't everywhere. Not even in the dark. Not even Simon had that power, nor did she, as much as she howled at the gates. There was a part of me that was too stubborn, too bitter, too jagged. It couldn't forget the pain of the past few months; it'd been starved and left cold by the lies, the secrets, the nooses, the flames. It was a vengeful, hypocritical, absurd part of me that had no right feeling the way it did—nonetheless, it was a rock under my heel. And as much as I tried, I couldn't find it. I couldn't remove it. Too often, I was left irritated and limping as it dug and dug, until it was embedded gravel in bone. Try as I might to numb its ache, god, how I felt it. How I heard it. Its scraping was deafening when the churn of traffic became a ghost route, when the world was too quiet; when the neon glows and lamplight's orange beams were the only lights on the streets.

Feeling abandoned and lonely, I would walk the empty caverns guilt had carved, and I would remember there were red skies outside my apartment. I would feel the slow decay of it eating away, and I would hear the reminders of what it was, why it was born, and why it stayed.

That shard of myself was still there, still lurking, still haunting—but whenever I felt it, I would reach for him. It would hush to nothing more than a smothered whisper under his touch. When he held me, it became a flickering, insurmountable torch I could bury in those caves and try to forget about. With every prayer he uttered at my altar, every oath he took in my name, and every whisper I heard in the dark, I ran from it, and towards him.

He couldn't change it. Nor could I—but I could hide from it. He could quiet it. We could endure it. Slowly, moment by moment, it became easier and easier.

And I happily learned a lot about Simon as December leapt into January.

His dislike of mint. The sound of his sneezes. How his low, pealing chuckles buckled under boisterous belly laughs during movies, and the way he hummed in the shower. Stories from college, tales of his nieces' adventures, and explanations of how he'd stepped in because his sister had needed him. How he said he didn't like reality TV. How he somehow always ended up on the couch beside me anyway, gasping and opinionated when it was on. How his eyes brightened when he kicked the ball back to the neighborhood kids, hands thrown up when they cheered, and how he rubbed his nose when an instruction manual was incoherent. I learned he called his dad every Thursday. I noted the pictures in his wallet, the pressed penny in his bedside drawer, and the collection of spices in his cabinets, jars half-empty.

I saw everything. I saw how he flinched at the raw wounds in his soul. How he sucked in a breath when I ran my hands over those injured parts; how it affected him. How it only ever happened behind closed doors with me, because he didn't blink, let alone wince, before others.

Widow as my witness, I walked his trails and swam his waters. I absorbed the smell of his soap woven with the threads of my pillows, and mapped the planes of his back down to the dimple on his spine. I meticulously studied his love of the smell of Juniper, the way he smiled into my pomegranate lip balm though it marked his lips red, and the way he took his coffee. I learned how he tossed and turned in his sleep—and I noticed how it ceased if I leaned close, tipping his body towards mine on the mattress.

I familiarized myself with everything he showed me. I learned it all, even what wasn't intentional or noticed by himself. I glowed with every drop of light I could collect, and was awed by every side of the uncut gem he was.

And I knew he was learning just as much about me.

It scared me, thrilled me, warned me. It told me I was being seen. I wasn't sure I'd ever been truly seen before, not even when the world had turned their critical eyes in my direction. I wasn't entirely sure I knew all that was being seen by him. How could I? I didn't know how much I was hiding, let alone what I was showing. But he was learning, and discovering, and not once recoiling. Neither was I. There wasn't a thing I'd learned that had planted regret, and that was... strange. I didn't know it was possible to keep my soil unmarked by poisoned waters, to keep the grounds lush and fertile with growth, to prevent the bog of decay that led to barren hills. I didn't know it was possible to allow invasion without it promising destruction. But he was showing me it was, and I wanted to believe it as much as I wanted him.

So for that, and so much more, I would remember every detail of Simon Gastapolous. I would remember every moment I called him mine.

I would also remember the cold nights, when Simon was in New York with August; the way its winter chill reminded me it was harshest during the early months of the year. How I'd been alone. Entirely, and startlingly, alone. Lena had started filming, the men had been gone, and Carrie had already begun wading through new pools of syllabi. I'd been left alone, cradling my vices to my chest. Alone, rocking them, in hopes they'd finally sleep. I remembered how the wind had howled through hollow valleys and screamed at shivering palms, how it'd seeped like crimson stains under doors. I remembered how before, in days long gone, I would've thrown myself into my work, or gone to visit my parents. I didn't do either.

Instead, I'd sat.

Alone.

And I'd froze.

I knew one day I'd remember how cold it was tonight, too. I would remember it as the night I couldn't hide as much as I wanted; the night he realized that while I'd never lied when I told him it was dark, I'd never quite illustrated just how far the shadows reached. I hadn't mapped all my caverns, or handed him all of my keys. I would remember how the wood creaked beneath his feet when he found me on the couch, stiff on the cushions in the middle of the stale night. How I didn't turn at the sound, because I didn't have to; I knew he stood in the doorway, watching the flood of light from the screen like I was.

The sound was muted. It didn't matter. The newscasters seemed to be screaming at me, the banner in all caps at the bottom of the screen.

PRICELESS PAINTINGS STOLEN FROM LONDON MUSEUM—THIEF AT LARGE

I would remember tonight. I knew that truth as it happened, unfolding and stumbling along. I knew it now, as I sat before that screen.

Simon didn't say a word. He was cloaked in silence. He didn't discard it, even when he came to sit beside me on the green cushions. Not when his arm wrapped around my shoulders, or when he pressed warm lips to my cold head, or when he pulled me closer. He was as reticent as always in times like this, as hushed as it demanded.

There wasn't much to say.

And yet there was so much to say. So much to hide. So much to lose.

I stared at the screen, burning the images into my mind. I stared and stared and stared—until my eyes slid to the painting on the wall. The work was an orange and red field of floral fire, wilted under the lack of light and notice.

"Did you ever... did you ever think it was me?"

My words were cracked and raw. It was as if my throat hadn't been ready to deliver them, like my timid heart; as if I'd forced a retired engine to sputter back to life, coughing coal from centuries long gone. I almost regretted asking—but not quite. Holes demanded to be filled, wounds demanded to scar, and answers demanded to be wrung from gently-kissed necks.

I felt Simon's jaw tighten where it leaned against my head. I sensed the tension of his body, even as he fought to keep it lithe against mine. I heard the slippery coating of wariness he covered his words with. With every beat of silence, I felt the familiar ache in every inch of my being, and I knew that ache would soon cave to gnawing, like clear summer skies always gave way to afternoon thunder. The pulse in his chest was the drumming of armies I'd lose to.

"Eleanor."

He sounded tired, and I knew that tiredness. It was the same tiredness that rattled my bones and wept at my feet. But I'd found a strength born from fear in my conscious's cupboards, and I pulled it into the light.

I leaned away from his touch to face him. Heaven help me, in times like this, I was like my mother. I needed to see his eyes. Because maybe, if I kept asking, I'd get more. Maybe, if I kept asking, the answers would change. Maybe, if I kept asking, inconsistencies would indicate incongruencies and inspire indictment.

If I keep rattling beside the mongoose, can I be surprised when it strikes? When it recognizes the sound? When it hunts, as it was meant to do?

"It's okay." The words clinked between my teeth, but still I forced them out. I was miserable, and honest, and a liar. "I wouldn't blame you if you did, Simon. I couldn't blame you."

His gaze was too penetrating. Too careful. Too surprised. I'd gotten so skilled at reading him. His walls were just as strong as they'd been before, but he'd allowed me too much time inside them, and had given me too many chances to learn how to pick his locks, to ever fully close me out again. I could see it; he was choosing his responses with gentleness, rooting for them under the rubble of shock at my words. Neither of us were prepared for this conversation.

"Eleanor, I've never thought it was as simple as that," he admitted slowly, shifting on the couch. "I never saw it as black or white."

His answer took me aback, and so did his honesty.

No matter how many times he proved his truthfulness ran as deep as his honor, I was always left clinging to surprise. I was so used to lies, to numbing reassurances, to people rushing to prevent fires, that I forgot not everyone feared the flames. Not everyone had the courage to give me their truth and ask for nothing in return. But Simon did.

So I could have let it die, right then and there. I could have choked on my silence, like I always did. I could have gone to bed, and tugged him closer to me.

I didn't.

"What do you mean?"

Simon shrugged, scratching the shadow on his jaw. "This case never felt like a clear-cut 'who'."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"Well, it's just that some parts of this case seem strange. It's never appeared as simple as others I've seen, or other heists I've heard of."

That hung in the air. I opened my mouth, but he was already taking another route.

"Not all of it is, though. Most facts about the case aren't really that surprising," he noted. "It's not unusual for it to be an inside job, like they think it is; that aspect is common."

"Common," I repeated. I felt the strange weight of the word on my tongue.

Simon's expression turned troubled, eyes glancing away. "If this was like any other case, my answer would probably be different. I'd probably have an answer. I'd say that no matter who it was, I'd be surprised, yet not surprised at all, because of it being in house. It's still shocking when the butler did it, even though it's cliche, right?"

"An inside job is cliche?"

I was a mockingbird fueled by incredulity.

"In a way, sure. When it's an inside job, there isn't a person that wouldn't both surprise me, yet also make sense, if part of the heist," he repeated.

He gave a weak smile and I tried to return it out of habit, but his grin was already dimming. Simon's eyes glanced towards the television again. He sounded more somber, more unsettled—more like me. "But this case... this case feels different. It's always felt complicated. Or not fully fleshed out, if that makes sense."

It was my turn to shrug. Another dollop of regret was joining the mountainous pile. I shouldn't have asked. I shouldn't have opened this door. I shouldn't have—

"If you're lucky, a case is cut-and-dry, regardless of whether it's an inside job or not," Simon said. "It's a person taking advantage of an opportunity, or finding themselves in a bad place and needing a solution. It's someone not thinking things all the way to the end, because they're blinded by the potential payout. Other times, though, it's not as direct. It's complicated. I've been wondering if this case is like that, but I can't... I can't quite put my finger on why. Just that it doesn't seem as easy as opportunistic greed, or starved desperation, or unfettered impulse."

I hummed in response.

"If it was, the investigators probably would've had a lot more to go off of," he suggested. "It'd be a crime of passion, or an amateur taking their shot. There'd probably be more clues left behind."

"Maybe."

"There's still not a ton of information available—but we know the investigators are almost positive someone at the museum had a hand in the heist. I think so, too. Honestly, it crossed my mind if it was multiple people, or even a coup."

"A coup against Geraldine? Never." I shook my head fiercely. "No one would target her just for the sake of it. No one wants to see Whitehill in hands other than hers, or see Whitehill go down."

"It wasn't the only option I considered. I've thought of a couple different scenarios, but none seem to fit perfectly."

For a moment, he was quiet. I was quiet. The screen was silent; the anxiety was screaming.

Then Simon said, "I'd really love to know the motive behind it, considering only one painting was stolen."

Our conversation felt roundabout, yet honest. It stumped me into silence. But Simon had been led down a path, and he knew the trek well enough to continue on his own, even when I'd stopped. His hand was warm on my skin. His eyes were tired, but alit with a spark of curiosity so unique to his passion. I watched him fall down a rabbit hole. He was tumbling further into the conversation, the excitement of a grand heist emerging from behind closed doors at my foolish invitation.

"Y'know, I actually think the 'why' can be so much harder to find and understand than the 'who'," Simon started again. "I mean, I've learned we can catch the criminal, but we might never know why they really did something. I've always hated that. Maybe that's part of why this case seems so strange."

"Doesn't the fact it was an inside job make you want to know even more about who did it? Thieves got away with it without anyone having any idea what was coming, or creating any suspicion. It's kind of crazy, isn't it?" I asked, pulling him back to where I was stuck.

He nodded. "Sure. The insider must be a skilled liar. Or maybe they weren't the mastermind, so things were kept from them. If they were just a pawn, they probably wouldn't have all the details—and it's much easier to hide what you don't have. Either way, an inside job in an environment like this makes me think the 'why' is a complicated answer. They betrayed a lot of people, and for what?"

I didn't answer.

"I despise mysteries around motives," he repeated, drawing circles on my arm, back on track. "Even though I know sometimes there isn't an answer, I still want one."

I sighed, nodding.

He gave a shy grin. "Sorry. I've always been interested in things like this. Did I tell you I majored in criminology in college?"

"Criminology?" I repeated, still surprised.

He shrugged, a smile flirting his lips like his eyes flirted with mine. "It was an easy choice. Criminology was something I kinda liked, and that's all I was looking for. I wasn't there to learn at first. It didn't really matter to me what the paper said. I was—well, I was more about the journey than the destination... which I guess is a nice way of saying I partied way too much."

He pulled a huffing laugh from me. He smiled at my disbelief, and for a moment, I thought the conversation could die.

But all too soon, he grew reflective again. He grew serious, his voice quiet. "Eleanor, I'd love to give you a good answer to your first question, but I can't. Something about this case hasn't added up from the start. I don't think the answer of who took the painting is as direct as pointing fingers."

"Do you think about the theft a lot?" I shook my head. "Of course you do, you're at the museum for a reason. That's not what I meant. The motive—do you think about the motive a lot?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. He was sheepish again, but it didn't take long for it to fade, intrigue tightening its rope and guiding him on. He fell back into animated interest, eyes bright and expression open. "There's so many questions! Why was the Widow taken? And why only the Widow? If I'm wrong, and it was a crime driven solely by greed, why not take a few other works, too? That'd increase their score, and it wasn't like they had anything to lose. They'd already broken in. The Widow is the jewel, but the rest aren't exactly worthless," he pointed out.

I half-nodded, half-shrugged.

"Did they not have enough time? Except, that seems unlikely. They had complete control of the situation, timeline, and security system. So why only take one?"

"It was all they needed," I offered, shivering. I pulled the blanket closer. The night was getting colder. Simon noticed, reaching for another throw and draping it over my lap.

"I agree, only taking one item in a building full of valuables suggests it was specifically targeted. In today's world, it wouldn't surprise me if it was a message of some kind."

I nodded tiredly. "That's happening more often than it should in Europe for political agendas."

"Except, if the motivation was a targeted attack due to political beliefs, the thief surely would've come forward by now. They'd be making demands or pledging loyalty. And like I said, if it'd been a clear-cut theft, you'd think there'd be a ransom, or a trail, or even some peep of a hint, verifiable or not. But nothing has come up. Not a single person has claimed the theft. There hasn't even been a hint of who it could be, other than—"

He stopped himself short.

Other than me.

His jaw dropped, anxiety already pooling in his eyes. I gave a pained smile. It's okay, I thought, silently reassuring him. It's okay. He reached for my hand, bringing my knuckles to his lips in apology.

He'd thought all of this through. It didn't surprise me, but it left a bad taste in my mouth. I turned to the screen, staring at the news reporters like they'd been the ones to ruin me.

"Maybe the who leads to why, and vice versa," I finally mumbled. I glanced at the man beside me, who looked relieved and sorrowful, and still ever so handsome. His fingers were entwined with mine.

"Maybe," Simon sighed. His free hand fiddled with the edge of the blanket. "Maybe not. Maybe it was just a stupid act, and that was it. Or maybe it was some elaborate distraction heist, or a decades-long revenge plan. I don't know. But I'd like to know who did it. I'd really love to know why, and I'd especially love to know how."

"I'm sure a lot of people would love to know how it all went down," I said, fighting bitterness in every syllable. "But it'll be their best kept secret. As long as it stays that way, they can do it again."

Simon nodded, agreeing. He squeezed my hand. "My point is, thefts like the Widow's are almost always more convoluted than they look. Whether it's an inside job, a crime ring, or shortfalls on the investigative end, it's always something. Sometimes, it's a familiar type of convoluted, so it's actually straight-forward in a way. But I'm not sure this case is. I might be wrong. It's just a feeling."

"It was never a question of who, it was a question of why," I told him, my voice a whisper and my heart a drum. He nodded, tired again.

I melted back into him slowly. He pressed another kiss to my head, and we both turned back to watch the screen. The stories faded into another, the night treaded on, and I wandered from his anchor.

I always do, though you heave it up each time, and follow on unchartered tides to try again.

How do we feel about Simon's response?

Honestly, this entire chapter has gone through so many drafts and none have felt quite right, so I'm putting it away until the second draft. Here's hoping the next chapter won't be such a pain!

- H