VERA

_

THE BELLY OF THE BEAST.

We were dancing in the place most dangerous to us, but the one place we needed if we were to be to succeed. It wasn't a question of 'if' anymore, it was a need. Not for me, but for Timothée.

I could see it in his eyes as we slipped through the crowd, passing through the hallway doors and up a staircase to the second floor. Every narrow of his gaze, every twitch of the lip, and every furrow of the brow—he was remembering the place he grew up in.

And it hurt to know the memories that danced inside these walls were tainted with lies and deceit.

"Are you sure you know the way?" Sam said under his breath, turning his head to look behind him, "tu sembles perdu."

Timothée waved his hand at the man. "I'm not lost."

"I wouldn't blame you if you were, it's like a maze in here."

Sam was right by calling it that—the winding hallways and doors were enough to send any sane person reeling for a map. It reeked of wealth as well. The deep, Aegean colored walls were so thickly painted, that I felt scared to trace my fingers against in worry that my hand might slip right through. And the gold—the gorgeous gold—traced along the edges of indents and frames like shimmers of light.

I found fear in its beauty.

This display of wealth did nothing but reassure the fact that we were dealing with real money, real Wills, and real people. It wasn't a silly little game I had entered into. I'd known it before, but I knew it more now.

"His office should be here," Timothée whispered softly, approaching a bend in the hallway, "it used to be my father's workroom."

Before we could turn the corner, the man abruptly stopped, holding out his arm to stop Sam and I from taking another step.

Voices.

The sound was soft, almost inaudible, but somehow he had managed to pick up the conversation of a group of people from down the hall. Their hearty laughs trickled through the air like dust in the wind.

Slowly raising his finger to his lips, we watched as Timothée motioned for us to remain silent, while slipping his necklace off with his other hand. The glass shard was soon balancing against his palm, glinting off the dim lamplight of the hallway. Twisting his wrist, he pressed his back up against the wall, inching the shard towards the edge of the corner.

He was checking the reflection; his brilliant mind.

"J'avais raison," he whispered, his jaw clenched, "two guards."

Sam's face twisted unpleasantly. "That's no good."

"Debatable," Timothée said, "at least it means something important is in that room."

"Like the Will," I nodded.

"Exactement."

As the glass shard was quickly tucked back underneath the fabric of a dress suit, I listened into the hushed exchange that followed between the two men beside me. In order to get into the office, we'd need to remove the guards—without causing havoc, might I add.

It was Sam's turn to shine.

"Exactly why I'm here," he grinned cheekily, "I'll distract them."

Timothée nodded curtly. "Don't cause too big of a scene, Brontté."

"Define big."

"We just need them out of the hallway."

The devious glint in Sam's mind was enough to tell the whole world that he thought of an idea. Determining wether or not it was idiotic or brilliant (or both) was the issue, but he didn't give us time to consider it before he was reaching for a vase of flowers on a nearby console, tucking one behind his ear, and throwing himself around the corner and into the guard's line of sight.

"Quelqu'un ici veut-il un morceau de moi?" I heard him shout, footsteps imitating that of a drunken man, "ou un gâteau. J'aime le gâteau!"

Whatever he said must have been hilarious, because Timothée chuckled under his breath as he grabbed my hand, pushing open a nearby room and taking me inside with him. He swiftly closed the door until only a crack of light was peeking through.

And then we waited, our breathing stilled as we listened to the commotion Sam was causing.

"Sors d'ici!" A husky voice yelled, "tu as bu."

Sam's voice was closer now—probably running from the guards. "Je n'ai pas bu!"

"Dehors! À présent!"

Soon, a flash of shadowy figures sprinted past the crack in the door as Sam led the guards running after him on a wild goose chase. I could sense the amused smile on Timothée's face, even in the dark of whatever room we were in.

A few seconds passed, and the hallway was deadly silent again.

"Let's go," he whispered, opening the door, "we need to be quick."

A surge of determination arose in my body, and I followed him out of the room and towards the now abandoned office. We were running on time, our ears dancing to the music playing from below, and our eyes unable to move from the shiny brass doorknob that stood between us and what we wanted. What we needed.

Timothée placed his hand on the handle, giving it a twist, but it didn't budge—locked.

"Don't worry," he smirked, noticing my faltered gaze, "five years of breaking into basements has its benefits."

I smiled, rolling my eyes. It felt like forever since I had first encountered him climbing through the storage window, and it was almost unbelievable that we ended up in this moment, in this house, and in this heist.

I was almost so struck with remembrance, that I barely noticed him reach his hand behind my head, pluck a bobby-pin out of the strands of my hair, and turn to slide it through the keyhole of the locked door. Missing it's structure, my previously perfect bun was now falling back towards my shoulders, the pins breaking apart.

I sighed, attempting to make it look reasonable while Timothée focused on picking the lock.

"Don't give me that look," he smirked, noticing my expression, "I like your hair down anyways."

And the door swung open with a click.

Taking his comment and swearing to dwell on it later, we both shared a smug set of grins as we quickly slipped through the entrance and into the office. I nearly forgot to shut the door again with all the excitement.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Timothée sang under his breath as he began to stroll around the small room, "where are you hiding, peu le testament?"

As he started to poke and prod the space, I took a moment to let it sink in. It smelled of sour alcohol and cologne inside the wooden walls, the fading green color making me feel just as sick as the odor did. This was the Uncle's office, alright.

Once would be able to tell by the way it was utterly a mess, besmirching the classic architecture it was supposed to have. Papers strewn messily across a mahogany desk, stained glass windows smudged with fog, and portraits of a pompous narcissist hanging on the walls (The Uncle himself, if you haven't guessed).

A changing screen with golden flowers was tucked into the corner of the room, along with a bookshelf of novels that looked untouched for several years—dusty and worn.

"Have you found it yet?" I said absentmindedly, squinting my eyes at a half-empty whiskey glass on the desk.

Timothée didn't respond, answering with an unpleasant grunt instead. He'd moved on from digging through cabinet drawers to searching the cracks in the furniture.

But my eyes were on the painting.

The giant, absurd depiction of Pierre Gagnon, his eyes lined with egocentric thoughts and his expression stoney and proud. It hung on the wall behind his desk, but it seemed a little off-kilter to me. The golden frame was ever-so-slightly tilted to the right, as if it had been...

... handled before.

"Timothée, come here," I said, approaching the portrait.

He stopped grumbling. "Hm?"

"I think your Uncle likes to play by cliché."

In most thrilling films, if you're looking to hide something important, you tend to put it somewhere you think no one would dare to look. However, that's what makes it so obvious half-of-the time. I suspected the will was being kept locked away behind the painting.

But as my fingers grazed the edge of the frame, the sound of hearty laughter shot through the cracks in the door, and the two of us instantly snapped our heads towards the sound. I recognized the voice from that day in the restaurant, and Timothée recognized it with complete distaste.

"Viens ici," he said sharply, grabbing my hand, "come here."

He tugged me towards the corner of the room where the changing screen stood, pushing us behind it with haste. We had barely crouched down in the tight space when the door to the office swung open, letting the cold air sweep in along with it.

And the voices stepped inside.

"Aurez-vous de l'argent demain?" A thin voice said.

I didn't recognize it, and the subtle twitch of Timothée's brow told me he didn't either. Two people were in the room with us—the Uncle and his guest.

'What did he say?'I mouthed to the boy across from me.

Timothée shook his head, holding his finger up to his lips as if to say 'shh'!

From where we were hiding, I turned my head to see a display laid out through the shadows of the room. The dim lighting cast silhouettes on the fabric of the changing screen, illuminating the stout figure of Pierre Gagnon and his unknown company.

I watched as the Uncle lifted his arm to pat the other on the shoulder, his darkened figure slipping like silk before us, dancing along the seams like water.

"J'aurai l'argent aujourd'hui," he laughed.

I cast a glance at Timothée, who grabbed my waist, tugging me closer so he could whisper into my ear. His words were soft, and I almost couldn't hear them over the passing wind outside.

"Money," he muttered, "they're talking about money."

I nodded, craning my ears to listen back to the conversation. I couldn't understand it if I tried, but I didn't want to let myself sink into the anxiety creeping up my spine. What if we were caught?

The shadow of the two men walked out of the silhouetted light, their footsteps thudding across the room and further from where we were hiding.

"En fait, vous pouvez avoir l'argent maintenant," the Uncle laughed, "Je suis un homme responsable."

Timothée's eyes widened.

"The safe," he whispered to me, "he's going to open the safe."

He didn't need to say anything else for me to understand what he was trying to imply. This was our chance to see where the safe was hiding—and as to my previous guess—I was correct.

Gathering up my courage, I slowly leaned my head out from behind the changing screen, getting the sneakiest glance at the office scene playing out. The Uncle had his arms placed around the edges of the painting like I had before, but instead of lifting it, he simply swung it open like a door.

Inside lay a large, silver safe, tucked inside a hollow in the wall.

"Je pense que ce serait mieux si vous vous retourniez," the Uncle laughed again.

I assumed he said something about the privacy of the safe's passcode, because his associate nodded curtly, turning his back towards the silver box. I, however, was granting the man no privacy—I needed the code.

Straining my eyes, I watched as he flipped open the digit-lock, typing in six numbers:

8 - 4 - 3 - 5 - 5 - 4

Slowly repeating the code under my breath, I willed myself not to forget it as I turned around and whispered them back to the boy behind me. I saw him squint his eyes, memorizing them as soon as they left my mouth.

But my thoughts were cut off by the sound of paper hitting a table, and the sounds of amused laughter. Peering over the changing screen once more, I noticed the Uncle sliding packets of euros over to the other man.

"Allons-nous retourner à la fête?" The associate asked.

"Bien sûr," the Uncle grinned, "il y a un de mes invités que je dois rencontrer."

"What's he saying?" I whispered.

Timothée shrugged. "He says there's someone he needs to meet."

I let myself tune out from there on, not caring to hear the rest of the conversation. All that was playing in my mind was the set of numbers I had seen: eight, four, three, five, five, four. I couldn't let myself forget them, no matter how interested I was in whatever transaction was happening behind me.

"Ah, oui, la femme du restaurant."

"Habituellement, je n'aime pas les femmes désespérées, mais elle a de la chance d'avoir chaud."

"L'avez-vous vue ce soir?"

"Pas encore, mais je peux l'avoir toute la nuit une fois que je le ferai."

I couldn't understand the words, but when I glanced to my right, I saw Timothée's eyes dark with malice, his jaw clenching so tightly I thought it might snap. There was an anger in his expression—one that seemed stronger than before. I held out my hand, and he took it, squeezing it into his palm and bringing it up to his lips as if he was daring himself not to speak.

Are you okay? I mouthed to him.

He didn't respond, waiting until the laughter of the two men from behind the changing screen dwindled out of the room and down the hallway. The door clicked shut. It was silent again.

And then Timothée stood, pulling me onto my feet.

"We're getting the Will and leaving," he snapped, "you're not staying here for anything else."

I furrowed my brows. "Won't it be strange if I leave?"

"No, it wouldn't be."

"But I was a guest," I explained, watching as he exited out from our hiding place, heading straight towards the location of the safe. The painting had been put back in place, but Timothée didn't care, swinging it open with no delicacy in hand. I continued talking, "If I disappear into thin air, they'll think I had something to do with this."

Timothée was punching the numbers in now. "You do have something to do with this."

"But I don't want them knowing that, obviously," I frowned, "why are you suddenly so defensive?"

"Because unlike you, I know what they were talking about," he stated, "and unless you like the idea of my disgusting Uncle calling you a desperate gold-digger who he'll have his way with by the end of the night, then by all means stay."

My mouth fell open, shocked at both what Timothée was saying and the tone he took with me. He seemed jealous and angry over it, more so than I was. When he saw the bewildered look on my face, his own softened, and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I just hate how they spoke about you."

I nodded. "It's okay."

"And I couldn't defend you, because—"

"Timothée, I said it's fine," I said, giving him a soft smile, "remember why we're here."

I wish I could have told him how I appreciated his protective nature, but with every second that went by, more was at risk. Someone else could walk in, Sam or Avery could get into trouble, or my missing presence might be deemed as suspicious.

So Timothée nodded, watching as the safe box started flashing green with access, clicking the door open slightly. The boy picked it open, eyes drilling into the piles of storage inside.

Gold cups, wads of money, jewelry, and so much more were packed neatly inside the metal walls, the dim lights of the office reflecting off the shiny surfaces. It seemed like a greedy treasure trove of some sort, but even with the materialistic distractions surrounding our gaze, Timothée reached inside, pulling out a thin sheet of laminated paper.

He nearly flinched when he read the words inscribed on top.

"Is that it?" I asked.

He nodded his head, not saying a word.

His eyes trickled down the page, scanning it for answers, but then a gleam stuck his eye like the light of a match. Quickly rolling the paper up into his hand, he shut the safe door, returning the office to how it once was.

"We should leave," he said, his voice surging with a mix of excitement and worry, "it's too risky to stay in here."

I furrowed my brows. "But what did it say?"

"What it should."

Deciding to stick with his vague answer, I let him lead me out of the room, my hand grasped tightly in his. The office door shut behind us, and we were back in the ancient hallway, stepping to the beat of the music blaring from below.

But as we turned down the hallway, Timothée stopped.

From across the way, a door stood proudly, once that I hadn't noticed before in the excitement. It seemed Timothée hadn't either. He turned his eyes, shooting me a content and hopeful look. Something lay behind those mahogany doors; something that he remembered.

"It's here," he exhaled under his breath.

Letting go of my hand, he approached the entrance, slowly twisting open the handle and pushing his way inside.

And there, in the quiet light of the doorway, I saw the place Timothée had told me about. Covered in mirrors and glass shards, making the walls seem like portals to another world, but still too fragile to be touched. The room where his Mother kept her dreams. The room where she left her memory in his mind.

The Glass Room.