To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty-Three: Run From the Calls

"Chez Tortoni" by Édouard Monet (c. 1875), stolen in 1990 from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum; the only painting taken from the first floor, from a room the thieves were not shown entering, leading to many suspicious speculations - value unknown (part of estimated $500 million heist)

Chapter Forty-Three

The next day, the phone rang—just as I'd expected it to.

One day after my meeting with the lawyers; one day after the news broke of the FBI's retreat; one day after I'd achieved some kind of victory—the ground split. The museum was bombarded with demands of my return, tributes pouring forth from the flames. They were sealed with heart eyes and raised fists, courtesy of a growing crowd of control-starved online protestors who demanded I receive an apology. They held a power unique to modern reaches of influence. Unlike others, they weren't afraid to wield it at whim, led by the blowing wind.

Because of that, because of everything, I knew the call was coming.

It happened with such predictability I could've laughed when my ringtone echoed through my apartment. It rang so loud my sister paused Lena's show, staring at me from the other end of my couch as it blared. It rang and rang, while my sister peered at me expectantly, but I didn't look at her, or the phone; I only looked at the frozen screen of my television. There was a smile of hell on my face.

But my sister's impatience was a strong trait. It drove her tongue and sharpened her edge. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

When I looked over, I was left jolted.

I hadn't realized how old my sister had gotten. How much she'd stepped out from under my wing, and taken flight on her own. The young woman sitting beside me was mature, capable. When had that happened? I was wise enough to admit Carrie had rarely ever truly needed me, but whenever she'd asked, whenever she'd needed her older sister, I'd always been so fierce about it.

Now, I stared at the fearless young woman beside me, and I was struck by an awful thought.

I wondered if she'd ever needed me at all. If, just maybe, I'd only ever told myself she had. If, just maybe, she'd let me be there for her, not only because it was easier, but because I'd needed it more than her. If, just maybe, she was the force and the reckoning and everything in between; the hurricane that closed its eye for the hell of it.

I wondered if she could see the pits in my own eyes. The flames I'd been thrown into and come to tame.

"You know what I have to do."

She did, but she still watched me with sympathetic sadness as I rose from the couch and finally answered my phone.

I took a deep breath, but it didn't soften my tone. "Mr. Whitehill," I said.

"Hello, Eleanor. How are you?"

"Fine."

My answer was short and clipped. I was my sister's teacher; patience was never nurtured by the hands of a Vaycker. Besides, I had nothing else to say. The floor was his. The gashes in its wood were mine.

"Er, that's good," the heir floundered. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I wanted to call about your job here at the museum."

"I don't have a job at the museum."

"Yes, I'm... I'm aware. That's why I wanted to call you. I hoped we could discuss a few things."

He continued talking, but I disconnected, distracted by the melancholy of what once was. I'd once seen Mr. Whitehill as a second father. He was a great dad to August, and a skilled leader of the Whitehill empire; a kind role model, a nice man. It was unfortunate, but I'd learned even nice men were crucified as villains in war. I wanted to interrupt him as he launched into his pitch, but I forced myself to hear him out. I tuned back in like a vehicle launched itself back into traffic.