To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty-Five: What Do You Know?

"Ludovic Lepic et ses filles" (Ludovic Lepic and His Daughters) by Edgar Degas (c. 1871), stolen 2008, recovered 2012 with slight damage - value unknown

Chapter Twenty-Five

I did something different. Something desperate, and irrational, maybe. Something I didn't usually do. Because usually, I let him go, chasing him off and never calling him back.

This time, I asked him something. Something that probably convinced him I wasn't truthful about my intake of drinks.

The words tumbled out, half swallowed by the glass I raised to my lips. "Do you think there's a plan? Like we're shown things so we can make the right decisions?"

Regret pointed at my stupidity and chortled like children at exposed knickers. I could've smacked myself in the face. What the hell was I talking about? I sounded like I'd done more than just drink.

I silently waited for the throat-punch of humiliation that'd come at the sound of his ridicule... but it didn't come. No, there wasn't an answer as soon as I would've liked. I looked up when he didn't immediately laugh, or question my sobriety again.

Simon had paused, half enveloped in the shadows he would eventually disappear in.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"The universe," I replied, feeling too committed to rewind. "Do you think it finds ways to talk to us? To tell us which way to go?"

Simon turned, eying my perch on the stool and the statuesque forms of my friends. His eyes then swept around the bar, towards the few stragglers who'd stumbled in and the weary stance of the bartender. Then he shrugged and moved to sit beside me. Once again, he had a million reasons to leave, but somehow, he found one to stay.

"As in messages? I don't know. I believe in coincidences. By scientific law, the universe seeks chaos. Random assortment of events would give that."

"So would careful coordination of chaos-causing events," I reminded. "Maybe there's a plan."

"True, but that's a lot of consciousness to place on a big bang. You know, if that's your fourth drink, you're doing pretty good at tongue twisters."

His elbow gently bumped me as he settled further on the stool. For some reason, I was strangely aware of every spot that touched him, just like at the Ponting Gallery. I needed to admit it. I had a growing attraction to him, and it was terrible. It was the last thing I needed—and the last thing I wanted to give him.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Lena pulling a reluctant August further down the bar. The bartender was split-eyed, probably trying to decide which group to cater to; weighing which of us would provide the highest pay-out at the end of the night. Seeing the same cuff links I'd tugged on earlier, he made his choice.

A weak laugh stumbled its way out of my lips. I dampened them with another sip of my drink. "You're an enigma, Simon Gatz."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You take this job—which no offense, but I'm surprised was offered to you at all—and you pour all of your energy into it. You take on the mantle of CEO when your predecessor screwed everything up. Then you stay. Every time, you stay. Do you like sinking ships?"

"Do you think Whitehill is a sinking ship?" Simon asked.

I think I am.

"I think it takes time to stop a flood with a bucket."

Simon flagged the bartender. "Greystone was a sinking ship, I'll admit that. That's why it became Riverwide."

I snorted. "A new coat of paint doesn't cover the cracks in the hull. Even the names are similar."