To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Seventeen: Chartreuse and Chagrin

"Landscape with Cottages" by Rembrandt van Rijn (1654), stolen 1972 - value unknown (conflicting data)

Chapter Seventeen

I was falling apart.

I stomped to my office like a child, turning corners and barreling through halls like a scorned lover. My hands wanted to rip; my mouth wanted to scream; my heart wanted to stop its uneven beat. I was furious, belligerent and unforgiving in my lash outs.

And yet, at the bottom of my emotionally murky depths was pain.

So I let the anger feed on it.

I let it carnivorously devour, fueled by those throbbing reserves to grow all-consuming. I feared what'd happen if I didn't—when the anger was gone, all I'd have left was my choices. All I'd have left to hold was my sins, my words, and my reputation; my pain would drown me to bottomless depths.

My anger was a buoy, so I clung to it.

As I neared my office, voices carried from the long corridor housing my destination. They grew louder and louder. I didn't immediately recognize them; my defenses bristled again, my spear leveled.

"I'm serious, what color do you think chartreuse is? No hints."

A pause. Then, "Red. Deep-purplish red."

That voice wasn't as loud or bouncy as the first when it speculated; it was low and reluctant. I found my anger faltering at their conversation. Chartreuse? The spongy shade of a French liqueur? Hell, I could've used a drink then.

"See, I was going to say purple, too, but a bright purple. Tooth fairy purple. You know what I mean?"

"I still think 'chartreuse' is a made-up color. But what is it, then?"

I recognized the second voice by then, those familiar low tones so mellow and smooth compared to the other's upbeat vibrancy. It was my acquaintance turned tentative friend, Simon. Could I call him a friend? Coworker didn't quite fit.

I could call you a lot of things, Simon Gatz, but 'mystery' might be the most truthful.

"Oh, it's real. It's green. Reminds me of the yellow-green crayon, actually. You know the one that looks green, but it's yellow? Anyway, I just learned about chartreuse. They have a whole color presentation in the lobby now."

"You're making up colors," Simon scoffed. I turned the corner then to find the backs of two Riverwide security members. One was Simon, as I thought, and the other was his right-hand man, Beck. They were headed away from me as they walked down the corridor. I tried to be quiet when I stepped into the hall, but both of their heads snapped to look over their shoulders at the soft patter of my steps.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't, don't worry," Beck responded warmly. I stopped short as he shrugged with his usual blinding smile and continued, "Job can make us a little on edge sometimes."

"Right. Of course. Then I'm sorry for making you... edgier?"

I cleared my throat and tried for a weak smile, wiping shaky palms and trembling fingers on my pants. My voice was struggling to get out of my clogged throat. It was forced to fight through a tense mess of bruised emotions and choked back lumps; I was trying to shove everything down as I frantically grasped for normalcy.

My heart still skittered in my chest. Panic relentlessly urged me to retreat to neutral ground.

Which isn't here. Whitehill isn't neutral ground anymore, it's a battleground and I'm on the side I shouldn't be.