"Saint Jerome Writing" by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1607 or 1608), stolen 1984, recovered 1986 - value $30 million

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Good afternoon. This is Diane Bellim of 'Strut News'—how you stay in the know. I'm here with Eleanor Vaycker, former employee of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery. As the most talked about figure of the art community in recent weeks, she's here to talk about the fateful night the famous painting 'The Weeping Widow' was stolen. The piece, recognized as the most well-known work by mysterious artist Wille Le'Garrigue, was taken in the dead of night this past September by who authorities believe to be an elite criminal team. Good to see you, Eleanor."

"Good to see you, too, Diane. Thanks for having me."

"Now, Eleanor, you've had an eventful past few months. It's no small feat to become public enemy number one of every museum in the world over a single night! You've been bombarded with accusations, plagued with suspicions, and forced to face allegations you had a role in the theft. Walk me through it from the beginning. How did you feel when everything started?"

"Well, Diane, I wasn't thrilled," I admitted with a laugh. "I spent so many years admiring art and wanting to be a part of its preservation. Having my peers turn on me so fast was... hurtful, to say the least. But of course, emotions run high when something so valuable and culturally important is taken."

"That's certainly a forgiving way of looking at it. To see the online criticisms of you, you'd think the case was closed—or that you were guilty! Articles of your arrest are just about everywhere." The interviewer smiled, supplying her own giggle under the bright lights around us.

"That's the funny thing, Diane, I wasn't arrested. I think there was some confusion about that particular point, or rumors flying around. For the record, I wasn't arrested, no case was closed, nothing like that! In fact, I'm sure the FBI's art crime team is still investigating a long list of suspects to find the painting. I wish them the best of luck. They certainly have their hands full with how much gets stolen and traded around the world."

"Do you have any insight on these thefts, or ideas of where they should look?"

Seriously, like I'm going to answer that on television?

"To be truthful, I have no idea where the painting is at this very moment. As with any other piece, I hope it's being properly cared for wherever it is. I suppose the thieves have it, or they've passed it on," I said. I took another breath, keeping my expression and body calm. "Look, I'm going to be honest here. I know how it looked when I was found on scene, and I know what's being said of me, but quite frankly, I'm surprised."

The room was holding its breath, and the red light above the camera blinked in encouragement. Diane happily seized the bait with both hands and sunk her teeth in.

"Surprised? What part was surprising to you?"

"Like I said, people turned on me, and they turned on me fast. Yet I couldn't even tell you the connection of some of the sources that've come forward about me. Not to be that person, but I wouldn't believe half of what's been said! I'm sorry, but how would any of these people know the real me? It's the strangest people coming forward, Diane. It's like asking the valet about my childhood, how the hell would they know?"

"Seems strange to me, too! So back to the FBI, are they still actively investigating you?"

I shook my head, keeping my relaxed pose on the plush blue sofa with an offhand shrug. "My lawyers said not to talk about it, but I'll be clear, I have no idea. Nothing has been said to me about the status of the investigation. Like I said, I haven't been arrested. I can't think of any real evidence they could've found to still be coming down so hard on me. You'd think there's bigger fish to fry."

"When you say they're coming down hard on you, what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to say, but I think it's unfair how I've been treated in all of this."

"Eleanor, what did you see that night?" Diane pressed. "Our viewers would love to know what actually happened the night the museum was robbed. Did you see anyone?"

"No, I didn't see anything. I was in my office planning an exhibit. When the alarms went off, I went out, and that's where I was found."

She pressed harder. "Did anything seem off? Any hints of what was about to happen?"

"If there were, I'm sure others would've noticed. I was so focused on upcoming projects. There are some truly amazing exhibits planned for the next year."

"Well, thank you for coming in today, Eleanor. I can't imagine how hard this was. In fact, this is one of the first times you've spoken to media since the theft. What changed?"

I pinched my lips together and gazed above Diane's head. I took a deep breath, putting my full skills behind a crafted expression, and began. "I think a lot changed. Seeing what the theft did to the museum was hard. I love Whitehill and what it does, and I really hope it comes back stronger after this, but it's been difficult knowing how fast people will turn on their friends when given the opportunity. Oh god, I hope I'm explaining this correctly!"

We shared another chuckle, and I continued. "Diane, I felt like my voice was taken that night. It sounds crazy, but... I was actually okay with that for a while. I thought I understood people wanted answers. That they loved art as much as I do, but recently, I realized that's not the case."

"What is the case?"

"People want to see me as the root of the problem. If it's just one person, we can ignore all the other issues and see who we want to be the answer. This was another way to push people's opinions out, not a way to facilitate discussion or examine the real issues."

Diane nodded. "And what would you say are the real issues?"

"Art has been in the media for all the wrong reasons lately, but we move on so fast from it. We don't talk enough about what we're actually talking about, or act brave enough to label it. There's a lot of noise about legal ownership of pieces taken from ancient sites, or pieces strong-armed from owners during war. Let's really talk about those things! Let's figure it out. It's not a bite of sensationalism, it's a horrible crime. It's cultural theft and the continued victimization of historical casualties. Whether it's losses of life or losses of beauty, pointing fingers and stirring drama isn't achieving anything."

"Spoken like a true lover of art. Thank you for being here today, Eleanor. We appreciate the opportunity to share this, and I hope our viewers see what the rest of us here at Strut News already do. You haven't deserved any of this. I applaud you for your resiliency as you face these challenges, and I look forward to seeing what you do next."

"Thank you, Diane! I have big plans. Thank you for having me."

Diane turned to the camera and met it head-on. "Check out more of Eleanor Vaycker's exciting new interview with us on our website and socials. Comment below your thoughts on the FBI's empty chase and where we fail history and art. I'm Diane Bellim, and this is Strut News."

"And we're clear! Good work!" The program manager called.

Diane's smile slipped like melted ice down a roof as she beckoned her assistant forward.

I watched, twisting my hands in my lap, still feeling like my lungs weren't breathing right. Being on camera was awful.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," I said.

Diane waved her hand, hardly looking at me as she sipped water that'd been brought forward. "Please, this was a great opportunity. I'm glad you reached out when you did. If you'd waited any longer, interest might've died out."

"Then I'm glad, too."

"The article will be out tomorrow. The video will be everywhere if we're lucky. People eat this shit up."

"Was it enough?"

"For viewers? Oh, yeah. Didn't you hear what I said? They'll pick it apart like vultures. I hope you used your poker face."

I remembered Lena's words when she'd connected me to Diane's team. 'This will either confirm to everyone you're a liar, or convince them they were wrong the entire time. They'll go from pointing fingers at you to pointing fingers at everyone else. I've seen it happen before. Either people will say they believed you all along, deny the whole thing, or... they'll say they knew you were the thief before anyone else did. People like to be right. They'll change their answer to reflect it."

I knew she was right. The interview was a treacherous step, but it was an important one; part of a long-winded plan that would help me close my fist around my image. My parents still wove repairs behind the scenes in hopes of salvaging what was left, but I was an incredibly impatient individual. It couldn't hurt to handle this in more ways than one. While my lawyers snarled and chased others into submission, I'd be in the spotlight I'd stolen, claiming it as mine.

An interview wasn't usually my family's M.O.; Vayckers weren't 'on the news, household name' famous. We were 'rub elbows behind the curtain, pull strings at the count of three' kind of famous. The ones who didn't sit at the head of the table in plain sight, but who nestled between the rich, the famous, and everyone in between. Who dipped a spoon in every pot and dropped a dollar in every startup. The Whitehill family was similar, influential in the same way, but also in an entirely different way; they were at the head of the table. Always in front of the media as the stars of the show, yet just as cunning and involved behind the scenes. The type to shake with their right and hold the world in their left, concealed behind their back. My mother once remarked how formidable August and I would be if we linked beyond friendship. As young teens at the time, we'd retched at the thought.

"Eleanor!"

I turned, smiling in relief when I saw Lena waving at me from across the studio. It was strange. She looked infinitely more at ease around cameras, like it was a security blanket she'd come to love, but also incredibly stiff. I wasn't sure how one could be both at once—but I saw it. Her posture was relaxed, but her feet were uneasily planted. Her expression was amiable, but her grip was too tight on a to-go cup. Her smile was wide, but her eyes hardly blinked. I curiously watched her as she crossed over to where we sat.

"We just finished," I informed her.

"Oh, good timing then. Nice to see you, Diane. I appreciate you organizing this so quickly."

Diane stood to peck Lena on both cheeks. "Of course, LeLe. What a coincidence, I was just telling your friend here about good timing. Like I told her, I think the real good timing was you reaching out when you did."

Lena's family connections, including being the goddaughter of Diane Bellim and her famous writer husband, had come in handy; it was why my rise from the ashes was being streamlined by the grace of a famous interviewer.

Lena's laugh was fraudulent in its sound as it spread like smoke around us. "Right. Well, sorry to run off like this, but El and I have plans."

"I understand. Will I see you at your father's birthday party next week?"

Just like that, Lena's partial ease was gone. It was only stiffness then, only a pained smile left behind on strained cheeks. I wondered if Diane knew how callous her comment was; if it really was innocent at all. Lena's godmother should know better than most the torrid details of her private estrangement from her parents.

"I'll have to check my schedule," Lena deflected. She still wasn't blinking.

"It's family, LeLe," Diane reproached. "I expect to see you there. I'm doing you a favor, after all."

I was a clash of differences right then. Angry at Diane's manipulative tactics, guilty at Lena's subtly anguished expression, and uncertain as to what my role should be. It was the tug-of-war of wondering if I should speak up, unsure if I was in any place to do so, and curious as to how Lena would handle it. I didn't have to worry for long. I was again rescued when I didn't deserve it.

"I'll talk to my team," Lena hollowly promised under the withering glare of expectation. "I'll see if I can make it."

I didn't wait after that; I thanked Diane again and reached for Lena. Seeing the crumple in Lena's facade was enough for me to make my decision. I didn't look back as I pulled her away. I hoped she didn't either.

"I'm sorry, Lena," I said when we got outside. We trudged to my car, afternoon sun drenching us in weak light, wilted under the wind.

"Don't be. I can't say I'm surprised." She shrugged, but I knew the wound that'd just reopened. I knew healing took time, and scars could be unsealed with one flick of a jagged word. But I gave her a moment of peace. We settled in Agatha, and took off.

It didn't last long. I broke the silence when my discomfort turned me selfish and guilty. "What can I do?" I pleaded. "You did me a favor. I don't want it to turn around and bite you in the ass."

"I hate talking about favors like that." Lena shook her head. "You're my friend. I did what any friend should do. What she did wasn't a favor, by the way. It's a debt. Like damn currency to trade back and forth."

"That's how favors work around here. You know that."

Her hands fiddled with the radio. Lena wouldn't look at me. "I don't care."

"I'll find a way to pay off the debt."

"How long until we're at my place?"

"Lena—"

"Drop it, El," she pleaded. Her eyes were dull when they finally met mine. "I don't want to talk about it. I reached out to her because you're my friend, not because I want you to owe me anything. I can handle my family."

I murmured my thanks. Moments like that doused my anger like wet blankets, forcing me to fan it back to its ravenous heights, but I had to. I'd come too far to succumb to guilt. As much as it clawed at my conscious, I couldn't allow Lena's sacrifice to slow my fight onward. I had to move on.

"I didn't know we had plans tonight," I shifted the subject.

Lena shrugged. "I was ready to leave. I felt like my head was going to explode. We can make plans. Want to go for drinks?"

"Sure." My fingers drummed on the wheel. "You know, I didn't get the chance to look online yet. Did the other interview come out yet?"

"It was posted this morning," Lena confirmed. "You're trending."

"Good or bad?"

"A 'set the world on fire', explosive mix of both."

I laughed. It was the type of laugh that caused my lungs to protest and my heart to grovel. "Great," I said.

"Are we all set for tomorrow?"

"Yes. Carrie got the ball rolling. There should be plenty to talk about now, if there wasn't enough already. "

Carrie had poisoned the well of gossip with drops of oily truth. The drops would allow me to shimmy out of the grip holding my head under water. Or at least, I hoped so.

Lena nodded, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Great. I picked my outfit already."

"I haven't." I sighed. "I need to—"

"What's going on with you and Simon Gatz?"

Honestly, I almost wrecked the car.

There was nothing between me and Simon Gatz. I'd essentially ghosted Simon after our dinner. First, I'd rescheduled our planned tour of the local arts, then I'd dropped off the face of the earth altogether. He'd reached out a few times, but I'd ignored him. I couldn't afford wildcards when I was working to fix my wrongly-shuffled deck. Or at least, that's what I'd been telling myself. Deep down, I was a coward that masked it with excuses.

"Nothing," I stammered. "Nothing's going on. I barely know the guy! Why?"

"I went to the museum the other day. He asked about you."

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god—

"Ah," I managed. I meant to say more, but my mouth wasn't cooperating. My neurons were probably distracted by the swell of reaction pounding my brain.

"Do you want to know what he said?" Lena asked, a little too innocently.

I chanced a side-glance at her, eyeing her smug smile and piercing eyes. I was blushing hard, trying to settle my rapid heartbeat and feeling like a teenager. I didn't know what was wrong with me. Perhaps there was a thrill from being asked about. I only hoped it was the right kind of questions.

I swallowed. "Sure," I croaked.

Oh my god he asked about me! Please be a good thing, please please please please please—

"He said he hadn't heard from you. Which is odd, considering you, and I quote, 'barely know the guy'. He asked if you were okay. It wasn't superficial, either, I think the way he phrased it was really sincere," Lena said earnestly. "Y'know, he seems like such a good guy. Hot, polite, a gentlemen, probably insanely good in—"

"Alright!" I interrupted. If she kept talking like that, my heart would never regain its rhythm. Still, I knew from experience she wouldn't let it go, so I fed the beast to ease the hunt. "Fine. You got me. We ran into each other at Damar, and after we went to the Ponting gallery together."

Lena looked flabbergasted, and a little bit angry, too. I couldn't blame her. "Why the hell would you go there?" she demanded.

"Because apparently, I like torturing myself. Look, I offered to show him some art hubs around town. You know, the ones that respect art while also protecting it. But first I wanted to show an example of what not to do at Whitehill. Hence, Ponting Gallery."

"Uh huh. And you couldn't have just sent him a list of recommendations? You actually had to go with him?"

I didn't answer for a moment. She was right, and it was embarrassing—not that I would ever admit it. "I did give him a list," I said. "I gave it to him after we ran into the twins and they were total asses. But Simon said he wanted to go with me regardless."

Lena dramatically gasped then, pairing it with a squeal I hadn't heard since my teenage years. To her and Carrie, the crumbs of my love life had to be sniffed out of dusty corners and pried from my hands. When they caught a scent, they rarely let it go. "That's so sweet! He asked you out."

"No, no, no." I shook my head swiftly. "It wasn't a dating thing. It's only because I know my way around art in the city."

Lena tilted her chin back to laugh. "So does August, but you don't see Simon taking August out."

"Shut up, Lena."

"Then what happened? He said he hadn't heard from you... did you ghost him after the gallery?" she accused. She had turned in her seat by then to fully face me. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's complicated. I'm busy, he's busy, and the optics of it would be awful. I couldn't do that to him. He's got things going on with his company, you know that."

"So let's review the facts," she stated, counting off on her fingers. "You think the guy's hot. You have a spark with him. He's shown he's still interested despite everything going on. He acts like an adult and has a good job. He has good looks. And yet you, in all of your brilliance, are staying away from him? I'm serious—what's the matter with you?"

"You're being childish, Lena. I'm not going to date him. I have bigger things to worry about than Simon Gatz."

"Fine." She settled further in her seat. "But you should know he actually seemed worried about you. For someone with a million reasons to stay away, he didn't seem too thrilled about you running. I swear, it's like the universe is giving you sugar in a basket of lemons, and you're just tossing it away."

The rest of the ride was silent after that.

Gosh, I love writing Eleanor. There's a melody I find in her inconsistency of self, in her clashes of hypocrisy. You'll see that a lot in the next couple chapters. I'm excited!

This chapter was originally 2,000 words longer. The natural breaks in these chapters do not work in my favor. Maybe when I'm done with the book I'll play around with it some more, but for now, I'm slicing the chapter and moving the rest to the next chapter (which will then be too long and the cycle will start again).

- H