Someone stole the Weeping Widow.
The priceless artwork is gone, ripped from its place on the wall and leaving only broken glass behind. The pride of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery fell victim to heists in the night, and the museum is determined t...
"Among the Ruins" by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1902-1904), value unknown
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Bonus Chapter - Simon's POV - [Between Chapter Four and Five]
I hated getting up early.
But it tended to be an unfortunate side effect of my profession, and adulthood in general, so I regrettably didn't have any other choice. I was also at the office for about fifteen hours every day, meaning the early hours of dawn were my only opportunity to go to the gym.
I didn't have a lot of free time those days; I barely had time for anything other than work. If anything, my time in the gym was all I could get to be my time, when I could exhaust my frustrations and pent-up anger to make it through the rest of the day. I could force myself into the office after, even when sometimes I wanted nothing more than to quit and leave like Reed did.
But I didn't. And I'd decided I wouldn't.
Instead, I did the next best thing. I glared up at the ceiling and bench pressed more than I should before the sun was up. My entire body was covered in a slippery sheen of sweat, and my clothes squished damply between the bench and my body as I heaved the bar towards the ceiling. It was gross and pleasing all at once. There was a type of satisfaction to be covered in sweat, to know you worked your ass off and pushed yourself; your body having to compensate for the energy and heat you forced it to yield.
I pushed myself a lot these days.
My breathing was harsh as I shoved the bar up towards the ceiling, hyper focused on getting it up and down without letting it fall. I had no attention to divert even when a figure stepped above me and occupied my peripheral vision.
With a grunt, I shoved the bar up a final time and let it slip into place on the holders. I laid there for a moment, catching my breath, feeling my chest's rapid movements beneath my hands. Then I heaved myself up and turned, looking to see who stood behind the bench.
Beck Ramos stood with an unreadable expression, his hands on his hips and his gaze watchful as he looked me over. A flash of annoyance shot through me, but I ignored it and him as I quickly stood and headed for the weights. Grabbing two five-pound weight plates, I shoved them onto either side of the bar, purposefully avoiding looking at him and his judgement. Beck watched silently, unsurprised at my silence. I went back to the bench and positioned myself down, gripping the rough etchings on the bar and taking more deep breaths, preparing myself for another set.
"Where's your spotter?" Beck finally spoke. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him looking around the mostly empty gym, his expression turning displeased as he saw no one nearby. He turned back to me, his eyes hard and his mouth downturned.
I ignored him again. I was really good at that, especially in the last few months. Beck and Reed were my closest friends, but I had acquired a special skill of blocking them out. I didn't need their concern. I was fine.
