"Jacob de Gheyn III" by Rembrandt van Rijn (1632), stolen 1966, 1973, 1981, and 1986 (nicknamed "takeaway Rembrandt") - value $13 million

Chapter Eight

I spent more time than necessary sitting in my car outside the sandwich shop.

I'd already bought the food. The smell of pressed paninis wafting from my passenger seat, but I was having a hard time starting the car.

I just needed a moment.

I was thinking. There were still news segments being run outside the museum, still reporters talking with brash animation before cameras crowding sidewalks, still voices cluttering the media with speculation and repeats of minuscule details. Still swarms of buzzing questions I couldn't fully swat away. Reporters weren't allowed on the property, but they hovered on the edges like a domed forcefield held them back, and they only had to wait with trained patience for it to burst.

I felt the weight of possible paths, futures, and decisions as heavily as I felt the responsibility of my name, title, and past.

I'd received two more phone calls while in the shop from news stations hoping for an interview. I still assumed I wasn't the only one receiving the calls, but I couldn't tell for certain until I got back to the museum and asked around. When I returned, my ears would need to grace the ground as I did my own scavenging for information. Because if I was the only one getting the calls, things were going to get a lot more interesting than they already were, and that said more than it should.

I started the car, knowing paninis were best enjoyed hot, and August didn't deserve a stale lunch because of my weak will. It'd been a long morning, but the day was still ruggedly dragging on. I was extremely glad the Whitehills were coming back; truly grateful Eliza was okay and it'd all turned out well. The museum was self-sufficient, but having a driver to lead the steer was always best.

My phone rang again.

If there was ever a time I'd considered running my phone over with my car, to listen to the intrusive thoughts snaking in my skull, it was right then. But the caller wasn't a reporter. Regardless, and effectively squashing my short-lived relief, the person calling had just as many questions.

"Hello?"

"Have you talked to mom and dad?" Carrie demanded. I pressed my head further into the headrest. Carrie could turn on charm like a tap, and right then said tap was firmly screwed shut. It was a shame, because charm and grace were favors I was tired of giving and in dire need of receiving.

"Why?"

"I've done all I can. They've been a lot more... them than we expected." Carrie sighed. My head tapped against the headrest, a gentle rocking that mimicked a soft slam. "You're going to have to call them."

I internally whined in dispute, but I knew I did; I had to call my parents. Carrie could only do so much to keep them off my back for any period of time. The 'I'm busy' excuse only went so far. It especially floundered when your father was a prominent venture capitalist and your mother was a real estate agent for the top one percent. They had a different definition of 'busy', and in their eyes it never seemed to apply to me.

How could I be busy when I work at a museum, right?

"Thanks, Care." I faltered, but steeled myself to a promise. "I'll call them tonight after work."

My sigh swelled, loud in that moment of familial reflection, announcing the resurgence of beaten back emotion. Carrie stayed quiet. We had an understanding, and it was one that didn't require words or comparison. In truth, there were a lot of things deemed unnecessary to say. Either from our shared origins, time spent together in upbringing, or just a mutual understanding of the world, our silence bore more fruit than our words ever could. We didn't have to speak. She knew, and so did I.

Because I loved my parents, but arguing with them the job I occupied was only my decision, and mine alone, wasn't a fun conversation to have. Especially when it was a rinse and repeat cycle, and when I knew it'd be even worse in the wake of the theft. I needed distance from my parents, at least for a while, but distance was a privilege in my lifetime. Perhaps it was even more of a privilege when names were as inescapable as legacies. My parents were my origins, my yesterday's explanation of tomorrow, but admittedly and innately good people with earnest hearts. We differed in matters of opinion, not matters of emotion. While they may love my connection to the Whitehills, they didn't quite love my job title or salary. While they loved me, they didn't especially love the choices I made.

The same couldn't be said for Carrie. She didn't follow the model of parental relationships that I as the oldest had established before her. Carrie still had hope and potential in their eyes. Carrie hadn't graduated, or fully chosen a career yet, and to them she was still malleable.

I thought they underestimated her.

"How's... life?"

Carrie had paused when uncertainty of how to phrase her question chafed her words. While there were things left unsaid, there was still plenty to ask about, and it was never clear where to start. But asking about the general umbrella of living was usually a safe bet; I could think of several questions that folded under that cover.

How's work? How's the investigation? How's Geraldine? How's August? How's having the FBI prowl, deconstructing every file, email, and personal detail about every employee? How's it going trying to convince mom and dad you haven't thrown your life away? How's it going trying to design exhibits people might not like or want to come to?

How's life, Eleanor?

"Fine."

Carrie let out a breathy laugh, a trickle of broken ice, relief, and amusement. "Alright. I have to run to class, but dinner tomorrow? Your place?"

"Sure," I agreed. Immediately, I wondered how she'd so smoothly invited herself to my apartment for dinner, but I supposed I'd grant her that younger sibling privilege. It was my role, duty, and honor.

I hung up with Carrie, hurriedly getting on the road back to the museum; the paninis were surely on the edge of being cold. I would blame California's horrid drivers and convoluted traffic. It was a standard excuse, and would stunt any dismay, instead encouraging sympathy and memories of the same.

I pulled into the back lot of the museum and stepped out, clutching the paninis tightly as surprisingly chilled gusts of wind reached for my lunch's dwindling warmth. There was little warmth for myself to give, but the faint traces of heat my lunch still clung to were easy victims for the energy-hungry universe.

The parking lot was emptier than it should've been as I crossed its paved plains.

The museum was open again. In fact, the first day of our return in the post-Widow era had been contrastingly busy to the currently scarce attendance. While I was unsure if I could say I was surprised at the elevated attendance, I can say that I wish I was. I wish I couldn't see, or didn't understand, the intentions of those gripping tickets in their hands as they crossed our threshold. But I did. People wanted to walk the rooms the thieves had, see how the museum cloaked the broken exhibit, and gawk at the cameras that didn't do their job. They wanted to launch smirks at the guards, whisper and giggle at any slipped cracks of stress, and remark on the event to the ticket agent, the guide, the janitor, and any other employee who got a little too close.

Crude jokes. Sharp laughs. Low blows. Slight sympathy from some perhaps, as gooey as the syrup news-reporters often poured on their words, but mostly raised brows and haughty, unspoken accusations. The idea it wouldn't have happened if x person was in charge, if y person was there that night, if something so obviously the solution was completed, the heist wouldn't have happened. It was human arrogance, ridicule, and foolishness.

I got closer to the back door, muddled and sullen. I wish I could say I held awareness of my surroundings in that moment, that I was cognizant of the world around me. But right then, as the fading summer and oncoming fall coiled and clashed in the air, as I ducked my head and trudged to a bubbling museum of uncertainty, I wasn't.

I wasn't aware of the reporter that sped towards me with a cameraman close behind her. Or how the cameraman almost tripped on the backs of her heels, staying in step,with a long line of reporters not far behind. I wasn't aware of the imminent threat until it was, quite literally, in my face and under my nose. And I wouldn't know how I so carelessly missed it until reviewing security footage much later.

Reporter microphones were odd. They shared few similarities to the stubby, bulbous ones used by singers on stage. Reporter microphones were skinny and long, with only a small cap on the top to speak into, but their oddness didn't matter. Their size tended not to matter when shoved under one's nose. It didn't matter if it was smaller, less noticeable, slimmer, or any other apt description. What mattered was its threatening jab and the squawk of the person who wielded it.

They weren't allowed on the property. That didn't matter, either.

"Ms. Vaycker, thoughts on the accusations against you?"

I stumbled back in shock, startled. She'd snuck up on me in a golden opportunity, when I'd been too lost in my own head, and now she leered over my bewildered form. A gasp tugged out of my caved chest, emptying my lungs of air that I couldn't snatch back; especially when I turned to find another microphone on my other side. It was a sudden swarm, hungry and feral. It didn't matter that they were trespassing, that I wasn't a celebrity, or that I was clutching a bag of paninis like a lone lifejacket on a floundering vessel. It didn't matter when they saw an opportunity.

In that moment, I didn't know if I was a victim of opportunity or a target. I didn't get to think about it as the swarm gnashed its teeth and tucked in even closer. But, that was also a disguised lie. I knew the answer, and even if I didn't yet consciously know, if it was too deep beneath the layers of startle and squeak, then I learned from the pointed quality of the questions.

"Any news on the FBI investigation?"

"Is it true you were first on the scene, and saw the culprits escaping?"

"Are you the thief? What caused you to turn against the museum?"

"Why'd you do it? Where's the painting now?"

It wasn't an aggressive pod of paparazzi, and for that I was admittedly grateful. Reporters were usually a little more refined, and perhaps a little more respectful. But like all of us, regardless of occupation, some had boundaries, and some didn't. For reporters, limits also depended on the weight of the story, and the desperation of the audience catered to. And while it wasn't the overwhelming slam of bodies and cameras seen with celebrities, it was still a clamor of noise and people.

People who'd apparently decided the weight of the story was worth the cost of bursting the barricade.

No, they weren't paparazzi. But they were hungry, eager, and out for blood, and I was a blind-sighted victim of my own making and terrible timing. They clustered and crowded, cameras shoved forward and up, microphones jabbed and brandished. And I shrunk. I shrunk in my shoes and simultaneously felt my spine turn to steel. I was once again a clash of opposing polarities.

Overwhelmed and ready.

Strong and unsteady.

Tall and folded.

A woman of preparation and surprise.

"I don't—" I started, braced and stammering under the onslaught, but I didn't get to finish before more questions launched, ready to bring down what remained of my fortress. My barricade trembled under the weight of hollers and shouts.

"How did Geraldine Whitehill react to your betrayal?"

"Have you struck a deal with the FBI? How much did you pay to be released?"

"Does your family know?"

I hadn't been arrested, so their questions made no sense, nor did I have any knowledge of statements being released by the FBI. I knew the FBI wouldn't disseminate information to the media without finding and confronting me first, though, so it stood to reason my name hadn't been uttered by any official channels. No, there was no merit to their questions, but it proved the once distant online rumblings had grown to a feverous pitch.

Someone, or most likely multiple someones, had released crumbs of detail to a critical public that ached for information. And those crumbs seemed to have been lumped together to form a haphazard cake bearing a banner of my rumored guilt.

How else would they know I was first on the scene?

Someone had faltered or caved, or perhaps even intentionally whispered into the void. And now the void aimed for me, daring me to speak, to give them more to spread, to feed the frenzy. There was blood in the water, and it just kept coming.

"Let me through!"

My voice was no match. Realizing it was a lose-lose situation, I tried to keep moving. I could either refrain from commenting, allowing the reporters to put words in my mouth and cement the nametag of traitor, or speak and potentially dig my grave further. Public relations was a tricky minefield, and I'd been shoved into the dirt.

They did not let me through.

Instead, they huddled closer. Roman armies had nothing on defensive formations like media teams. Not even a barreling linebacker could break the wall of barbed questions and weaponized camera equipment. They wanted an impromptu press conference, and they were determined to get it.

"Is it true the painting wasn't insured?"

"You're on private property, move out of the way!"

"How long was this planned? Was your friendship to Augustus Whitehill just a ploy to get close to the family?"

My head jerked, a physical reaction to their assault, disgusted by their questions. "Move!"

But they didn't, and I couldn't make them. I was trapped, left to fight for every step closer to the museum, but too unsteady and anxious to do the aggressive moves I needed to. The paninis fell to be trampled; forgotten and smashed under the feet of raring reporters.

I soon began to wonder about the curious and tricky sensation of panic, as I felt it begin to stir, yawning and awakening from its slumber. I don't believe panic ever disappears—I believe it goes dormant, waiting to be released, lying in wait beside our other instincts. Panic, fight, flight. All hammered into and branded across our DNA.

I held off panic as long as I could. I was a Vaycker, and I was no stranger to media. I was a Vaycker, and I was no stranger to critical eyes. I was a Vaycker, and I was no stranger to poise under pressure. I was keeping more of a cool head than I believe others would've maintained, even when lost in a tide of confrontation, because I was a Vaycker.

But I was also Eleanor. And some situations were manageable until they reached a boiling point; when the lid of the pot could no longer contain the heat fighting to climb the sides. I was a young woman who wasn't entirely prepared, who'd overestimated herself, and who soon felt the disappointment of said realization overwhelm her.

And preparation gave way to panic.

My throat threatened to babble, my tongue threatened to twist, and my waning patience threatened to ruin everything. I was one microphone-jab away from losing the battle and giving them what they wanted—a show.

But a voice called out. A voice I hadn't expected, wasn't prepared for, and immediately found myself grateful for.

"Out of the way!"

It boomed, rippling through the crowd and granting the slightest halt in their attack. They still threw out questions, and cameras still caught my every move, but it was a window of opportunity and I used it. I launched myself forward once more, toward the door, toward the owner of the voice and the group behind him.

And I hoped, with every beat of my frightened heart and every gasp of my papery lungs, that at the end of it all, I'd make it to the other side.

I'm sorry. I'm aware of my extended absence.

I've removed the part of the book's description that promises updates every Friday. It's just not possible right now. I could supply my excuses, give a long-winded paragraph of life updates (that admittedly wouldn't be unfamiliar or odd for Wattpad), but I won't. Excuses aren't the words I should or want to be writing and posting on here - my chapters are, and that's what I will work on.

I'll just say I'm sorry. And that the same battering ram of life we all hope won't show up on our doorstep truly knows how to find another way in. Life doesn't wait at the door, I suppose.

- H