"Madeleine Leaning on her Elbow with Flowers in her Hair" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1918), stolen 2011 - value $1 million

Chapter Fifteen

"Late night working, huh? Museum isn't about to be robbed again, is it?"

I dropped my pen, staring tiredly and apprehensively at the man in the doorway. Even in my exhaustion, my heart picked up its unsteady pace. I'd like to say it was solely because of his unspoken accusation, but if lies were rocks, that'd be too much of a mountain to move.

"I hope not, considering how much we're paying you to protect it," I responded.

My voice felt gawky from hours of disuse, but it seemed he almost granted me a smile at that. In the dark I couldn't quite tell.

"Would you like anything?" he offered. "I'm heading to the break room."

He stepped a little more into my office, yet still kept a respectful distance. Although I wondered if it wasn't respect at all, but caution and vigilance. I had quite the reputation. He had no reason to be afraid of me, but plenty to fear of being associated with me.

I ignored his question and focused on my own. "What are you still doing here? You've been here all day."

"So have you."

"Well, I would think a CEO would have someone else pulling doubles, or doing patrol."

The remark was born from confusion, but as soon as it left my mouth I realized how downright rude it was. I had no idea why he was there, and he certainly didn't need my snark. It sounded like an intentional jab laced with taunts. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"A boss shouldn't give work they're not willing to do themselves," Simon pleasantly interrupted. He did so seamlessly, with hardly a ripple in the conversation. He didn't seem at all bothered by my blunder, but I felt embarrassed, nonetheless. In truth, he'd caught me unawares, tired and overwhelmed, and I was tilted off my axis with no sense of my bearings.

"That's a good philosophy to have."

Simon's head tilted, and he stepped even further in. My heart picked up a little more; a skip, hop, and a jump away from a cardiac event.

"I'm surprised you're still here, if you don't mind me saying. Considering current events," he said. 

Current events. That's a diplomatic way of saying 'considering what happened last time'.

"You're right," I admitted, resigned at the revelation things had truly changed. "It's probably not a good idea to be here late anymore. I didn't realize what time it was. I'll get going."

I stood, brushing off the weariness draped across my shoulders before closing my laptop and gathering my stuff. I could feel my pulse in the base of my skull, my fingers, and in every tensed muscle I silently scolded for being too wound up. Simon watched quietly. I could sense him, surveying my desolate demeanor and tight movements with thin detachment, until he teetered and rocked on his heels. With a subtle glance I noticed he suddenly looked to be wrangling his own words, and my hands paused on my bag without my permission. I could feel the suspense rocketing in my body like caffeine in my blood. If my heart didn't knock it off, there'd be a real medical concern on his hands.

"You know, if you ever need my team to help keep things... quiet around here, we can do that," Simon finally said. His tone was still calm, but his onyx eyes stuck on mine knowingly.

It'd be ridiculous to think his team hadn't heard the gossip and backhanded comments made by my fellow coworkers; both the ones said to my face and the ones whispered behind my back. Even if they hadn't by some blissful gift of ignorance, the internet was open in their disdain for my continued employment. It was clearly an offer based on the traps laid out for me every day. So I smiled. Relief and an odd dose of disappointment soothed the knot in my stomach.

"I don't have need of that just yet, but I'll keep it in mind. In case the board members decide to stop by or something," I said lightly.

Or, well, I'd intended it to be. But the words grew heavier the moment they left my lips, weighed down by their truth and warning in the trepidatious air between us.

Simon nodded. "Andrew Graves has been lurking as well. I think he'll be stopping by to see you tomorrow."

There was a hint of distaste peeking through, and Simon didn't seem to care enough to hide it. I briefly wondered if August wasn't the only one with a dislike of Geraldine's private eye. I stared and paused again, truthfully unsure why he was giving me the warning. It was appreciated, now I wouldn't be blindsided by the private detective popping up the next day, but I didn't see why Simon was telling me that. It served him no purpose.

"Thanks for letting me know."

"Of course."

Conversation stalled then, gears grinding to a stop in the dim light. I didn't want it to end just yet. I was curious. I was entirely and truthfully intrigued about a lot of things that revolved around Simon. He was an enigma I wished to unravel, though I attributed the desire to an unease around the unknown in times of crisis. He was unknown in every sense of the word and I had a plethora of questions—including about his skilled team that'd suffered under distrustful headlines, and his sudden rise to power after it was thrust unceremoniously into his lap. I had even more questions about his time at Whitehill, and what that entailed.

Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back, all that jazz.

"You know, speaking of surprise, I'm amazed your team hasn't been told to watch me while I'm here. I wouldn't put it past the board to say I need chaperones."

Simon didn't say anything, but his expression tightened.

"Wow," I scoffed. "They did tell you that, didn't they? I haven't been charged with anything, you know. The FBI is investigating a lot of people. It's not just me."

"I didn't say anything," Simon said gently. "My team doesn't follow the board's orders, and neither do I. My only bosses are people named Whitehill."

I let out a soft chuckle under my breath, a touch of air away from a snort and extremely out of place. I earned myself an odd look from the man before me. I'd officially lost it.

"Sorry, but I'm sure Eliza would be thrilled to hear she's your boss. August's little sister is fifteen and you're probably like James Bond to her."

Simon did smile then, a beautiful smile that softened his features. It was small, hardly there at all, but it felt like a hard-earned win. The still-feeble light was somehow harsh, yet impossibly gentle on the dips of his jaw and nose, and the smile lessened his sharper edges in a welcoming manner.

"You and the Whitehills are close. It's an interesting dynamic to see," he observed honestly.

His words had no ill intention, but I looked away. It wasn't false, or a rude thing to say; it just felt like salt. Salt and vinegar and everything stinging and sharp poured into a wound that sang cries of pain. An observation of what should've still been, but wasn't; an offer of a broken looking glass to the past.

I didn't want it.

"We were. I met the family when I was a teenager, and they welcomed me. We were really close before all of this."

"You don't think you're close to them now?"

"August and I are. I don't think even this could change that," I said. The wound threatened to swallow my being and my composed silence. So I continued, "Mr. and Mrs. Whitehill don't treat me differently, but I know this situation is a toll. They're told to be suspicious of me all day, every day, by everyone. Somehow they're still nothing but nice. I don't know how they do it. Their employee base turned on me pretty quick. And Geraldine—"

I froze, realizing that was a lot of information for someone I barely knew. Someone who hadn't asked to be a therapist in the middle of the night, and who didn't care about my personal struggles of tattered reputation.

"God, I keep putting my foot in my mouth," I said, mortified. "I didn't mean to just dump all of that on you. I don't even know—I mean, we don't—"

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. You can share what you like, at your own pace. Even if it's nothing at all." Simon held his hands up in surrender. My ramble stopped like a rusty bike, clunky and sudden and close to pitching me over the handlebars.

Simon was surprising me again. It was a different side to him than the one in the exhibit, and even different than the one in the back staircase. Simon was multifaceted and each one misled me more than the last. I'd been right when I said Simon wasn't the crude cynic he'd presented himself as that first day. If he was, he would've laughed at my twisted spokes and bent handlebars as I stumbled and crashed.

"You didn't pry. It's just a lot of pressure," I reassured, offering him a weak smile. "You caught me at a bad time."

"Why are you still here?" he asked slowly after a beat of uneven silence. He seemed to be asking something he didn't quite understand, but was eager to discern for one reason or another. It was a curious expression, but a guarded one.

"At work? Sorry, I lost track of time, like I said. I'm going," I said, hurt at the abrupt dismissal. It was a baffling switch and deepened my embarrassment. It stung, but Simon shook his head.

"No, why are you still at the museum? You're working like nothing happened. You haven't left. Honestly, I don't know many people who wouldn't feel betrayed after everything. They're investigating you for theft, and, well... not a lot of people believe you're innocent."

"Including you?" I asked.

He didn't answer again. Pushing on, I responded to the questions I was sure a lot of people had about my presence. "I have a job to do. I love working here. I haven't actually been charged with anything, and the Whitehills still want me here. I'll stay as long as they let me—regardless of what anyone else thinks. People can talk all they want."

Simon nodded. There looked to be a new glint in his eye; a shiny penny of growing respect. He considered for a moment, before sharing more. "Mr. Whitehill's been fighting for you. The board and legal team want to put you on paid leave until the situation's sorted out, but the Whitehills are trying to keep you here."

"How do you know?"

"You'd be surprised how talkative people are when stressed. Or maybe you know," he said, nodding at me with that shiny glint in his dark eyes. It was a tease, only a light jab lacking ill intent, but my face flamed anyway. At the rate I was going, embarrassment would chase me out of Whitehill before gossip had the chance.

"Right. I really should be going."

I hurriedly gathered the rest of my things, my chin tucked low in case the dim lights couldn't hide the burn of my cheeks. Simon stepped out of my way as I passed.

"I'll walk you to your car."

I thanked him, and our steps echoed in the mostly empty museum. Simon nodded at the security guards as we passed, a mixed assortment of both his team and normal employees, but nothing more was said until we reached the cold. The rain had lightened to a soft mist. Its tendrils encouraged my hair to puff and my clothes to dampen.

"Have a good night, Eleanor," Simon said. He stood a little ways from my car, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. His almost-curls were tight on his forehead from the moist air.

I turned over my shoulder, tossing words out quickly as I opened the car door, "Goodnight! Hope you find some art you like on your patrol. Maybe you'll learn something!"

God, that sounded rude, too.

I'd meant it in reference to our tour of the exhibits when we first met, and his seeming resistance to the works back then. It was meant to be a joke. Instead, I seemed like a bitch with a haughty superiority complex. It was the inescapable story of my life.

"Maybe I will. See you tomorrow."

I shut my door quickly, eager to run from my mortification. I could've sworn I heard him softly chuckling, but I didn't look at him again. I drove off, feeling like I couldn't do anything right.

A short chapter, but hopefully a good one nonetheless! Something miraculous happened with ILAD this week, so if you discovered this book that way, welcome! Glad to have you.

- H