"Portrait of a Young Man" by Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino or 'Raphael' (1513-1514), stolen by the Gestapo 1939, current location unknown - estimated value >$100 million

Chapter Eleven

"What happened yesterday, Ellie? I know what the press is saying, what mom and dad are saying... hell, I tried calling August this morning to talk to him, too. But I want to hear it from you. What happened?"

"Well, you know about the media," I started half-heartedly, already shying from the seriousness. "The articles, tweets, videos, news segments—"

"I get it," she interrupted. "Lots of people talking. Go on."

"They think I did it. There's no evidence, but everyone thinks it was me." My shoulders tipped and sagged with a shrug. "They cornered me yesterday to confirm and ask how."

Carrie's eyes gleamed as she leaned in.

"And did you?" she dared. "Did you do it?"

For that moment, as she challenged me in the restored living room of my apartment, as a slow, wide smile unfurled on her cheeks, my tangible worries turned into another momentary strike of reflection. The happenings were unreal, but they were happening and true. They were something to laugh at in their factual, enormous absurdity. And a timid smile grew on my face, too. A smile that both summarized and hid the paralyzing speechlessness of it all.

How did I get here?

"Never mind," Carrie said dismissively after a moment, blinking with a careless flick of her wrist. She swished the tension off our shoulders with a manicured hand. "I know the answer already."

Carrie laughed, a throaty giggle to follow her rhetorical questioning that was never intended for an answer. She hadn't actually been asking, and I'd known that, so had obliged with silence and patience. Carrie was the queen of reminders through tested limits or callouts, and having renewed her reign, she slung her legs back into my lap with bemused ease. "Now, go on. What did August say after everything? Was he there?"

"He didn't see what happened. It was in the parking lot when I was coming back from lunch. I went to find him after."

Carrie nodded, but I was still reaching for the right words to explain the awry events of the day before. I continued, "But he'd already heard about it from Simon, the head of the new security company we hired, so it wasn't a surprise when I got to him."

"Simon..." Carrie mused, thinking. "Oh, right, Simon Gatz? I read about him when I was reading about your supposed great escape with the Widow."

I snorted, a mocking, unbelieving laugh that burned my sinuses. "Great escape? What do they think happened, I got caught so I stuffed it down my shirt or some shit? That I just waltzed out with it behind my back after the police arrived?"

"God, who the hell knows. But go on, we'll talk about Simon in a minute. I mean, we have to, I saw a picture, he's hot as—"

I shushed her, feeling a burn coil up my cheeks and spread like spilled oil down my neck. Simon was attractive, but gossiping about the head of security, especially when he was hired after such a distasteful blight on the museum's history, felt... dirty.

It felt unrefined, unbecoming, un-something.

Something that would make it very hard to look Mr. Simon Gatz in the eye again. But that was silly, because my sister and I had spilled more than our fair share of scandal between the two of us, and never batted an eye after. We'd never flinched or cracked in the midst of those discussed. It was only after, when we were alone, that we rehashed details, dissected faux pas, and reveled in other's errors. It was our silent, stubborn, scarlet soaked oath of sisters. So, it shouldn't be any different. Simon Gatz shouldn't be any different. But I wasn't ready to discuss Simon's tenebrous eyes, his carefully stoic demeanor, or the Herculean heroism in my time of need. So I shushed her again, louder and disrupted with laughter when she continued on.

"Alright, alright. Back to August." She raised her hands in surrender, relenting as she eyed my surely amaranth cheeks. "How did he react? What did he say?"

I leaned back, the laughter quickly dying in my throat as I tilted my chin to the ceiling. My head fell with a muffled thump on the cushion, and I slipped down the steep slope of solemnity. I contemplated the fading eggshell white stretched above me; focused on the paint even as my tired mind filled with images. As it flooded with memories of shocked blue, shaking golden curls, and shuddering hands clasped in an embrace around me. Of voiced anger, tears threatened, and raging storms of departure.

As I remembered my conversation with August.

"Was it that bad?"

Carrie wasn't joking, or childish, or loud anymore. She wasn't poking, or prodding, or pestering. She was soft-spoken, her cheeks and eyes padded with concern, her fingers twisted, and her cuticles picked as she leaned in. My periphery caught her hands twist and twist until they lost their rhythm; she reached forward to gently place one cold palm on my arm. "El?"

"Carrie, I don't know if I can do this," I murmured. My chin tucked and turned, my eyes flicking to hers while the rest of me still laid haggardly limp on pine green cushions.

Carrie's fingers ever so slightly tightened their curl around my arm. Barely enough to notice, but it was one of the few indications of the battle she waged inside, along with the ever-so minuscule pucker between her brows. It was a thin little crease inherited from our mother, who seemed to fret over it constantly as it deepened with age.

It was a mark sometimes found on my own forehead; seen in the mirror in my office when piles of bureaucratic tape, colored red to yellow, stacked ever higher on my desk, demanding to be cut through. The days I had to see my way through layers of international customs regulations, historical preservation laws, legal ownership battles, and endless budget analyses with just a metaphorical butter knife. That was when I saw the crease in the mirror; when I saw my sister, when I saw my mother. And now, Carrie wore it as she regarded me with an otherwise forced-smooth expression. It was her voice that was tight underneath the coating of assurance, her fingers on my arm, and the crease that bobbed in and out of disappearance, that told me she debated inside.

"Ellie, I—"

"I know."

I sighed, shoving my head flatter and deeper into the cushions, and returned my stare to the blandness above us. Beneath, I'd filled my living room with all of the bright colors I'd missed growing up in our neutral home. Still carefully curated, of course, but insistently bright. What did it say about me, that I surrounded myself with color at work, home, and wherever I could? I didn't find calm in neutrals, didn't thrive in blank slates, didn't yearn for muted scenery or removed busyness. Until now. Now, I wondered if the monochrome fortresses others used to quiet frantic brainwaves was a memo I'd missed or perhaps thoughtlessly discarded. Now I wondered just how much I'd changed recently, that color in its concentrated spikes of demanding brilliance had lost its visual appeal to me.

"I know," I repeated.

"What happened?"

"Like I said, I went to go find August. Simon had already told him what happened, but he asked me directly, like you. I told him about the reporters and the people who started calling yesterday."

"People?"

"Other news stations," I answered. "They started calling for interviews. There's been press running stories outside the museum since the theft, and employees got calls here and there, but the media team mostly had it handled. It looked like things were quieting down until yesterday."

"Things weren't quieting down online," Carrie pointed out. I nodded.

"No, theories were getting louder online. They hit the media, and I explained that to August. I told him people thought it was me, and that's why I was the focus."

"So, August didn't take it well? God, it takes you forever to tell a story," Carrie remarked. I shot her a look, trying and failing to bite my tongue.

"The whole world thinks I stole a painting worth hundreds of millions of dollars, so maybe I need an effing minute to process?"

"I have a test in like an hour." Carrie checked her phone, hastily putting it away after catching my expression. "Sorry, I'm still here for you. Go on."

"He didn't believe me."

"August didn't? That's what he said?"

"No, that's what Le'Garrigue said. I talked to the dead artist before I talked to August."

I've mentioned once before—my sister affords me leeway in the pits of my emotions. She also calls me out on them.

"Knock it off," Carrie commanded, annoyed and deadpan. "So, August didn't believe you. Did you show him? I personally thought the mention on SNL was funny."

I shoved the urge to smack her, or cry, or fall apart down, and explained the rest to Carrie. I recounted the events in their entirety, the conversations that'd echoed in August's office, the tinny flecks of silence that'd coated the rest of my time in that building. The only thing that wasn't discussed was my conversation with Simon.

I explained how I revealed my international reputation of deceit to August.

I'd told him the world only heard I was there, read I was found staring at a blank wall, and discovered my body was half turned to the same fire exit that'd granted the thieves their escape. The public had decided they didn't need any more. I'd detailed how the world had mocked my background, social status, upbringing, connections, finances, anything and everything they could find that helped validate my treachery in their eyes. How jokes about the downfall of elites, ruining the rich, and remarks I got what I deserved still ran rampant online. That I was nothing but a dumb brat with daddy's credit card, and I'd learned a hard lesson that I can't always get what I want—at least in the eyes of the public.

August hadn't believed me. He hadn't believed I was out in the cold, shivering on the wrong side of public favor. I remembered his disbelief, his stubborn denial. How he'd shaken his head and stared wide-eyed as I'd tried to explain. And when he had believed me, when he'd accepted I was a newer, darker stain on the marbled expanse of Whitehill, I remembered how he'd gotten angry. But August didn't do anger. Not like how other people did it.

August didn't do rages, or rampages, or riots. He didn't do mussed clothes, or wild curls, or irate eyes. He didn't do harsh pants; there was no heaving chest unable to contain the wrath it harbored. No, he did shaky hands through perfect hair before flattening it back down. He did closed eyes with deep breaths, and re-anchored sturdy stances. August did anger the way a golden knight would when calming a snarling, breathless dragon—by swallowing it down and finding a solution.

And that's what he'd promised. He'd told me we would find a solution. He'd given me a hug, and he'd pulled me tighter when I trembled, though I'd known his hands were shaking too, quivering with everything he held back. He was angry at everything that'd happened, that he couldn't catch a goddamn break, that the world scorned his efforts to paddle through choppy waters no matter how hard he tried. He was angry for me, for his grandmother, for his family. Upset our nightmares of the world only seeing us, or in this case me, in a stained green light had come true. It was a reminder of how far either of us had to fall. It was August, peering over the cliff I'd tumbled down, and knowing sometimes all it took was one misplaced foot to careen down dizzying heights.

And then he'd been angry at me, when I'd confessed I had no will to fight. That while I'd follow the media team's directions, and listen to whatever his family recommended, I wouldn't be battling the world. Nor did I want him to, either. We had too much on our hands without it, and other people's plans already shook our foundations, large and coiled tight beneath the pillars we leaned on, stewing in their wait. We didn't need to add any more to scales that precariously tipped. While some plans would be allowed to play out, and some would be halted, none included the clean slate August wanted to give me.

He didn't care. August had promised to clear my name. But promises were pearls pried out of clenched jaws and sold for advantages in my world. August was rich in pearls and promises, and kind enough to give them freely, but I wouldn't let his wealth come to me. I wouldn't accept it. We would wait, I told him. We would wait, and we'd see what happens. We'd argued more, back and forth, but August still hadn't done anger like most others tended to do. He hadn't raised his voice, or waved his hands around, or berated. August didn't do anger like others, no matter how furious he was.

I teemed with respect for August, and I always would; I was incapable of imagining a day I wouldn't.

For my part, I'd tried to explain. I really had. I just wanted him to focus on Geraldine; the painting was gone. The Widow was gone, and he needed to accept it. Of course, I understood his anger. I understood he was angry I wasn't demanding the best tactical way out of the mess; flabbergasted I was content to let the mess boil over and through. Maybe he was right, but I was in too deep to change my mind.

Too late to turn back. Too late to pull the cord and use the parachute... right?

But nothing compared to when I'd tried to apologize. I'd tried to say I was sorry, and that I hoped he knew my friendship with him was real. That while reporters flung words of poison, they weren't true, and I'd never let them be. God, August had looked so hurt. For a moment, I'd thought I'd spewed the acidic accusations. Then, with his tone hollow and pained, he'd told me he didn't know why I felt the need to clarify that; he didn't know why I didn't believe in him, or us, enough to know he'd never think anything like that.

I remembered what he said. I remembered everything, and I still wished I'd handled it better. I remembered it all even when I wished I didn't. How he'd looked at me, as I tried so hard to detach myself and remain calm after everything that'd happened, and how he hadn't looked like the August I usually knew. The August I knew didn't have red cheeks flushed with emotion, or hard blue eyes rippling with hurt. The August I knew didn't have a rigid jaw or stiff hands at his side.

But then August had given me another hug, threatening to squeeze out the tears I desperately swallowed, and he'd stepped away. Even in his anger, his hurt, his pain. He'd given me a hug, and promised our friendship was stronger than the rocks threatening our glass houses, or the matches leering over flammable bridges. It was killing him inside not to come to my aid, or protect my honor, or fight for my name. August wanted to do something. He'd never do something irrational, because he was August Whitehill, but I didn't want him doing much at all. I didn't want him pouring himself into my situation when the museum still quaked.

August had been so angry at anything and everything, but he'd forced himself to individually agonize in it, and he'd left in a storm of aching hearts. I didn't know where he'd gone after.

I also showed Carrie the texts he'd sent later that night checking up on me, and the insistences of coming over to make sure I was alright. I'd declined every time. He needed to be with his family. I looked at Carrie, hunched over my phone in concentration, and knew I was right. Family was important. August was, and always would be, my family, but I was okay. Or I would be, eventually.

"I'm so sorry, El." Carrie shook her head as she handed my phone back to me, her face still long and sorrowful.

"Yeah, me too."

My smile was watery and weak, but it was there. Carrie returned it half-heartedly but, again, it was there. She knew the same as I did that August was one hell of a good person. We both also knew a cold fact; the people who are good are the people who get hurt the most, especially when surrounded by those marked by internal thunder and blistered maybes.

"So, a test, huh? Biochemistry or business?" I asked, shifting the conversation once more.

"Chem test," Carrie confirmed. I pulled a face, twisted and dramatic.

"Do I even want to know what that includes?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you!" Carrie joked.

I laughed and stood, feeling fatigued limbs creak loudly in protest, still weighed down with the remnants of sorrow. "Want a cup of coffee to go?"

"Sure."

My coffee pot was always full, always hot, and always off-limits for all but a select few. I supposed my sister could get the privilege of a cup, though. If anyone should get one, it should probably be the person I'm related to, I thought. I disappeared to the kitchen, pouring it in my least favorite cup since I wasn't sure when I'd get it back. I heard sharp knocks at the front door as coffee splashed about.

"Care, can you get that? It's probably August."

I told him not to.

"I got it," Carrie called back. It was silent for a few moments, but I didn't think much of it; I was too focused on the drops of creamer I'd accidentally splattered on the counter.

Carrie's voice rang out from near my front door. "Hey, Eleanor?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that joke about people thinking you stuffed the painting down your shirt, and took it home?"

Yes.

My hand froze on the lid, and I slowly turned. My feet shuffled to the kitchen doorway until I could see Carrie at the front door. Her body was half-turned to me, blocking the door frame, but I could see her white knuckles on the knob.

"I guess it wasn't a joke. And it's not August."

Her tone was unrecognizable. Then she stepped back, letting me see who stood on the other side of the door. Who stood serious and imposing, with others behind her, waiting.

"Hello, Eleanor."

I forgot all about Carrie's coffee, and the test she needed to take, and everything I'd prepared for as I stared at Agent Catarina Gallick, and the posse of agents behind her.

TSAWW got its first Wattpad feature!

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- H