"Cartel de Don Juan Tenorio" by Salvador Dalí (1949), stolen in plain daylight in 2012 in New York City, mailed back to gallery from Greece ten days later, thief was caught by fingerprint left on mailing tube - value $150,000

Chapter Forty-Nine

Every day, a person breaks down the muscle under their skin. And every time, the body repairs it and rebuilds it to be stronger, like children pat wet sand on the cracks in their castles, rebuilding what was carelessly damaged by the tides. Every day, the bone that was once broken becomes fortified; brittle sticks become steel, reinforced to never break as easily as before. Slashed tendons are mended, threaded together, cell by cell. It is the tender work of a body hungering for survival. Gashes are patched by scars. Injuries are healed. Blood is remade. The heart keeps pumping. Maybe erratically, maybe quickly, maybe hardly at all. But it does. The body keeps moving forward, pace by pace, moment by moment. It lumbers, slippery and sticky, trudging the walk of life; throwing limbs forward and dragging itself along.

Every day, we live. We live, even when we don't mean to. We don't always choose to do it. We just... do. We're just here.

Physics tells us some semblance of truth, some smidgen of explanation to satiate our grasping minds.

An object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by outside influence.

The heart will keep beating until stopped.

The rate of change is equal to the amount of force provided.

The lungs swell to accommodate the air we give them. Or, the stronger the wind, the more the tree bends.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

For every grind of teeth, the mouth aches. For every beat of the butterfly's wings, a tremor is felt, somewhere, somehow.

There's an outcome to everything done. For every plant the ground is burdened with, the more the sky welcomes new growth. For every swing of fists, the more bruises are painted on skin, dappling canvases with mottled blues and purples, stamping flesh with stricken greens and yellows. The more lies are spoken, the more we put on the scales to lose, silently hoping our hearts will still be light enough in the end.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

That was always the most poignant law of physics to me. The longer we run, the longer they chase. God, I was tired of running. The more we love, the more we hurt. God, I was tired of hurting. The more we value, the more we steal. God, I was so damn tired of stealing.

Actions had consequences. It was like that with people, too. The more I held Simon, the more I cursed him, impaling myself on the sword he swung to guard me. The more I ignored August, the more I haunted him, feeling his hurt in every beat of my own heavy heart. And the more I scorned the woman who'd died, the more I punished myself, feeling the blade settle in my chest like it was always meant to be.

From the weight of my truths to the openness of a god's scorn, I'd fallen apart.

It was all true. Hear it from my lips: I'd wanted to do the right thing. I really had. I'd wanted to make everything right. I'd wanted the Widow's loss to be a passing meteor, singeing our skin but never invoking outright flaming. Instead, I'd done nothing but hurt the people I cared for; I'd done nothing but ruin, lie, and love.

No, nothing had worked out. Nothing had happened like I'd thought. I'd done nothing good; I'd done nothing but end my world and burn others with the implosion. I'd wanted to return something that wasn't anyone's to have—but it hadn't been real in the first place.

It hadn't been real.

For months, I'd laid awake thinking about what was. Was any of it real? Was she real? The more I thought about her, the more she seemed a fraud. It scared me to think about. God, I was stuck. I was left knowing things I didn't want to know; left knowing there was only one person who could possibly know, but unable to ask, because that person was gone. Gone. She left like a coward. Now, if I admitted what I knew, it'd only make it worse. I was kneeling in the ring of fire. I knew I needed to know the truth, that I had to know the truth, but I'd still never asked for crumbs, even then. And I wouldn't, even now.

I kept my silence.

Because I was a coward, too.

I learned agony was an old friend of guilt and grief. The trio fed each other pieces of my heart, as if fragments on a vine, dangling above their waiting mouths. They were triplets who tripped me in the halls, shunned me during the day, and haunted me at night. They were the snakes in my hair, as heavy as the world on my shoulders and as loud as the skies when they hissed in my ears. Maybe there was another reason why it was called the scales of justice—it was the snakes slithering underfoot, wholly unnoticed, that held the most power.

Traitor, guilt hissed.

Liar, agony snarled.

Thief, grief growled.

I almost certainly wasn't the first to be followed or to tread on them. Geraldine's collection was a haven of handpicked jewels, but some of us shone a little differently in the light. Some of our scales couldn't be shed.

LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR—

Forgive me, I'd defended Whitehill. I'd guarded it like it was different. Like she was different. Like my actions were simply to fix the only injustice there was, like there hadn't been a plethora of them in the shadows.

It wasn't the only injustice.

It never was.

I knew that now.

Now, I knew nothing had been different about Whitehill.

Nothing had been special, or just, or right. It'd been me who was foolish; a general so blinded by patriotism, so sure they were only protecting their country, they couldn't see the damage they wrought. A sheep, who couldn't hear it was never the cries of war the leaders had claimed, but screams of fear coming from the trees. No, goddamnit, the values of the other side, the ones I'd fought against, were the same ones disguised at home. Forgive me, I'd been a cop under a sheriff who'd ordered drunks jailed despite the flask at her hip. I'd been a soldier who'd pulled the trigger, intoxicated under the promise of freedom and the haze of fear, before realizing they weren't running at us, they were running from us. A preacher who decried sins but slept in a deviant's bed; a child who fought for the family they didn't know had cast them out; the revived who praised their savior, not knowing holy hands were stained red from more than just miracles.

I was a hypocrite. I was spiteful and lost. Dying from cancer and blaming the environment, though a cigarette hung from my lips. Limping home, cursing the wall, though I'd driven the car to kiss it. Burnt to a crisp, threatening the sun, though I'd slathered the oil on my skin. Cursing the gun, though I'd pulled the trigger, fingers stained with powder; cursing the dead, and their wretched demise, though I'd done the killing. I was cursing the landing, as I lay in a heap, though I'd done the jumping, the falling, the smashing of bones, teeth, and flesh.

I was cursing the pain, though I'd done the loving.

I'd done it all.

So they viewed me with pity now. Their expressions were painted with sorrowful empathy, even more so than before. Once, they'd winced at my fall, but at the time they'd believed I'd earned it. Now—now, they flinched at the sight of my scars and claimed I'd never deserved them. They boasted of my resilience, like they hadn't been the ones to put me through it. They promised pride at my return, like they hadn't been the ones who'd locked me out. The rest of the world had changed their minds long before my city had, but now they all stood by my side. Even my former coworkers shoved their way to the front and claimed spots they'd once ridiculed.

They didn't apologize, of course; there was too much pride for that. Whitehill was always a proud place.

And I wondered if there was pride about the secrets, too.

After everything, I didn't know who was responsible for raiding Whitehill all those months ago. I didn't know where the Widow was. I didn't know who Geraldine was, or what she'd done—but I knew enough. The things I knew were damning, damaging, and debilitating. I knew too much.

Cornered and lost, I didn't leave my apartment for weeks after the funeral. I barely acknowledged the knocks on my door, or the temper of my worried sister, or the badgering of my parents. I barely acknowledged the change in the light, or the wind, or the scenery outside. It didn't matter. The change was insistent regardless of my attention. The fleeting green was soon gone; the biannual brown was back, now from the scorching summer instead of the withering winter. I didn't really notice. I didn't notice any of it. I was a shell. Not even Simon could lure me from the walls of my home.

Nor could August, though lord, how he tried.

He came by every day. And every day, I let him plead outside my door. Every day, I punished myself and promised to never hurt him again. Every day, I swore to never inflict myself on him again; to never punish him for his grandmother's or my crimes. I protected him by keeping my door locked and my sins buried. I watched from inside the gilded cage I'd locked this conniving canary in. I watched, and I haunted, and I rotted.

And every moment of every day, I saw Simon's shoulders stoop a little further. I saw his eyes gain another drop of pain, his soul gain another bruise, and his wellbeing fray a little more. His loyalty was being tested by those outside my door, who begged and threatened to be let in, who ordered him to stand down. Every day I watched him worry when I refused to open the door, when I stubbornly dug my heels in; every day I watched him wonder if he was doing the right thing, though he tried to hide his doubts. He was good at hiding things. Just like I was, he knew how to bury truth without visibly disturbing the ground. Yet, I was better at finding things I shouldn't. So I knew; every day he fought my battles and protected me from my own prowling justice.

Maybe Simon was my punishment. My sin. My broken promise and my biggest lie. He was part of a fantasy I thought I could live in, as long as I stayed inside, as long as I ignored everything but him. As long as I pretended to be anyone else, I could pretend none of it was true. Simon was my biggest regret and my greatest love.

Time was my punishment, too. June revealed itself too soon. June seeped in from under the door and caught in my lungs like the acridly sweet stench of rotting flowers. June bore down on my apartment like a hurricane waiting to sweep me away while I cowered behind Simon.

And June was the month Geraldine's will was finished being dissected.

Geraldine's demise was no exception to the way of life. When someone with anything dies, their belongings are counted like pennies; their things are inventoried like stock to sell. Their lives are reduced to what money they could give others; what properties people could claim now that they're gone. Geraldine's will had been pulled immediately after she'd taken her last breath—because it had to be. There were too many moving parts for the engine to stop, and certainly too many people eying the loot of the raid.

It'd been a long process. There'd been a lot of things to inventory, a lot of properties to evaluate, and a lot of pennies to count. A lot of threads to unravel, too, because the Whitehills were so woven together it was hard to tell where one stopped and another started. I'd known it was happening, of course, but I hadn't paid much attention to it. I hadn't kept track of nor cared about Geraldine's will. Nothing mattered to me anymore. Certainly not the museum. Certainly not her money. There was only thing I wanted to know, and it was something her will couldn't tell me.

At least—I didn't think so.

Or, at least—I hadn't thought so.

"What does the letter say?"

Simon's voice nudged me out of the clouds and back into my kitchen, where I stood staring at the page in my hands. I'd been waiting for the words to change, for the ink to shift, but they still glared back in smug defiance.

"Babe?"

I licked my lips, as if it would make the words easier to say. It didn't.

"Geral..." I started and failed.

Her name was foreign on my tongue. I hadn't said her name since that cursed day at the memorial, when I'd suffered a breakdown beneath the jacarandas. I hadn't said much about her, or the museum, or the Whitehills at all.

At the fragment of her name, Simon stopped what he was doing. In my periphery, I saw him look up from the coffee pot and set it down slowly, worry already tightening his jaw and darkening his eyes. He walked over, wary; he was always wary.

Simon reached for the letter I held in my own shaking grip.

And I let it go. All of it—I let it go.

Simon started reading. As he did, I blankly recounted what it said, the information still unsettling in my mind. The words were branded in my thoughts.

"She—she left me something in her will," I said as he read.

"Really? What'd she leave you?" Simon asked, still scanning the lengthy document.

I knew Simon's eyes caught on the life-changing words at the same time they left my lips. I knew, because his eyes widened, and his body stilled.

"The Widow," I whispered, eyes finally meeting his. "She left me 'The Weeping Widow'."

That night, my door finally opened. The defenses were lowered enough to let one person through; a person who knew more than most, and had the best chance of offering perspective I couldn't reach myself.

Simon leaned against the door frame. His hands were in his pockets as he watched the Vaycker sisters convene on the couch. After so long of just the two of us, so long of him warding her off, I could see how unsettled he was by letting her in. He'd wanted to welcome her from the very start, of course, so he was surely glad... but my sudden change of heart was probably blaring alarms in his trained head. There was another crinkle between his brows. I could see it from here. It'd been there for months; it was a crease I'd tried to kiss away every chance I got. I knew I was the reason for it. God, I always was.

Carrie's eyes darted over the lines on the page like Simon's had, silently mouthing as she read the letter. I watched her. There was a calmness about her, a further maturation that'd settled now that she'd graduated. I'd heard the graduation party was a lavish affair. I'd heard my parents had gone all out, making it so big and opulent that maybe no one had noticed her sister hadn't attended. Maybe they hadn't. But I knew. So did Carrie. I knew it every time she said she understood why I hadn't gone. I also knew she meant it—but deep down, I knew it'd hurt her on a level she wouldn't realize until later. I knew she was another person who wouldn't forgive me after realizing what I had done.

She glanced up when she was finished. Her expression was as confused as I felt. "I don't understand," Carrie said.

"Me either," I bleated. I could hardly look at the paper. Instead, I buried myself in blankets from the cold. It was if June had turned uncharacteristically icy.

"She left you the painting?" She flipped the letter back over and started reading it again. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe it was already in the will before the theft."

I shook my head. "That doesn't make sense, Care. The painting is worth millions of dollars. Even more now, after everything. Why would she leave something like that to me?"

"Why not?"

That voice came from the doorway, from the man I loved.

Both of us turned. Simon moved at our gazes, pushing off and walking closer. He settled in the armchair beside me and gestured to the letter. "She owns dozens of expensive paintings," he said. "They're all worth a lot. Sure, not all of them are that valuable, but who better to leave it to? You were her protégé."

"Why wouldn't she leave it to her son, or one of her grandkids?" I countered. "I understand why she'd leave me a painting, but that one? Of all the paintings?"

"Like I said," Simon repeated, "Who better to leave it to? Who would treasure it as much as you would?"

"Everybody. There are people who'd pay hundreds of millions to own it. There are people who would kill to protect it—even people who work at the museum!"

Simon shrugged again, a smile widening his lips, kind and soft. He didn't seem to understand how ludicrous it was. "Sure, they'd want it, and take care of it, but they wouldn't value it as much as you would," he maintained. "Other people might like art, but you and Geraldine were different—I don't think anyone felt as much about art as she did. I'll admit I didn't know her that well, but even I could tell she was passionate in a different sort of way. Just like you."

"Lots of people are like that," I said. "I can't claim to love art more than others. Definitely not more than Geraldine did."

"Maybe it was her way of telling the public she doesn't care what they think about you," Carrie threw out. "Y'know, like a public show of solidarity."

"I was fired," I sourly reminded her. "Clearly, she cared."

It was Carrie's turn to shrug as she folded up the letter and returned it to the envelope. "Then who knows," she brushed off. "She left you the painting, and she didn't leave an explanation. It doesn't matter, anyway. There's nothing for you to get because there's no painting."

"Ademption by extinction," Simon informed. "That's what it's called."

"Yeah, I skimmed that part," Carrie drawled.

By extinction.

I cleared my throat, fiddling with the blanket. My heart clenched at the thought.

"Simon, can you get the wine from above the fridge?" I changed the subject. "It's where I keep the good stuff, but it's a pain for me to reach."

Simon nodded. "Sure."

He kissed my head before disappearing to the kitchen. The moment he was out of sight, I turned back to my sister.

"Do you think she knew?" I blurted in urgent, whispered tones.

Away from the watchful eyes of Simon, Carrie's expression looked torn in two. Part of her was clearly furious at me, and the other part just looked... sad.

"I don't know, El," she said. Her voice was as soft as mine was harsh. "Like I said, maybe. Maybe she left it to you in the will to say that it's—it's okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay that you took it."

Bile flooded my throat. I choked on my words. "But I didn't!"

"Yeah, but no one knew that, remember?" she reasoned. "Everyone thought you did."

I nodded slowly, leaning back—but I didn't believe her. I didn't believe that Geraldine had known and had acted out of forgiveness. Because if she had, if she'd suspected it was me yet never said anything, if she'd known and I still hadn't asked her before she'd died, or said anything before she wasn't around to hear it, if she'd effing known—

"Red or white?" Simon called from the kitchen.

"Blech, I hate red," Carrie griped, her face twisted. "Say white."

Carrie had switched back at the reminder we weren't alone. She'd reverted back to her usual self. But I was struggling. I always was, because I was never as strong or as fireproof as I claimed to be. And maybe I was never as good at lying as I thought I was.

But I had to keep trying.

So I swallowed thickly and cleared my throat to call back, "Just bring everything, Simon. Just bring it all."

Later, when Carrie left, Simon and I found ourselves outside. It'd been a while. I'd forgotten how the wind tasted, how the hills made the valley seem snug, how the sun just looked different when felt on skin. And I'd forgotten it was really effing hot. Even during the post-afternoon bliss, when the sun was dragging its feet while setting, when the day was over—it was still ridiculously hot.

At least it wasn't humid, the doorman had laughed. Or extremely dry, Simon had added. I'd only shrugged and mustered a weak grin. It was hot. That didn't change because of how it was elsewhere.

Hand in hand, Simon and I walked as I took it all in. The city was still sharp on the corners, still round with its love and mundaneness, still textured and unique. The city hadn't really changed. Some of the same posters still plastered boards outside shops, and some new ones crowded over, like pavement laid over Roman brick. The shop across the street still touted environmentally friendly coffee with in-house grinding; the bike rack was still full of bikes that'd earned spots of rust or missing wheels in their owner's absence. The city was still the same city it was before—it'd just lost the best diamond of its collection. There was no bringing her back.

We walked, and I tried to feel normal. Simon spent more time looking at me than he did the city, and I pretended not to notice.

"Look," Simon said, pointing. "The new gallery is opening. The one you talked about last fall, remember? You were so excited about it. I can get us on the list, if you want."

"Sure."

"It's entirely a black and white exhibit, right?"

"Mm."

I took in the new public posters outside the pet boutique. The local theatre production was putting on a new show, I noticed. I examined the sign. I thought making a musical about a real-life boat sinking was a little unfortunate, but what did I know?

Distracted, I almost missed when Simon's quiet voice rose from beside me.

"παπαρούνα."

I glanced over, alarmed. He'd slowed his walking, looking at me with that all-too familiar crease in his brows. His eyes were so dark against the waning light of a summer evening, but his sadness was exceptionally bittersweet. It always was.

"Simon?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

He looked so somber; it made my chest hurt. He wasn't answering. He just looked unsure, uneasy, uncertain. Unwilling to hurt me.

"Why did you stop walking?" I pressed again, stepping closer.

He was still hesitating. I silently urged him to spill before my mind launched for the closest, ugliest thought. It was already reaching, grasping, flailing.

Something was holding him back. I could see it in his eyes, in his thin mouth, in his twitching fingers by his side. Maybe it was the panic that bled into my expression that made him finally explain.

"Because I'm," he took a breath, "well, because I'm worried."

I tilted my head, blinking. Gesturing to the posters behind me, I tried to determine what he meant. "About the gallery? Or did you see the musical sign, too? Yeah, sure, it seems a little odd, but it might be worth seeing."

"No, Eleanor."

My heart was beating fast now. It revealed itself in the unsteady words I leaned on, trying to hold them up to fool him. "Simon? What is it? Just tell me," I pleaded.

He didn't answer. He closed the last fragment of space between us and clasped his hands in mine. It seemed like he was examining me, as if seeing me differently in the light. I fought the urge to squirm or shuffle. I gazed up at him innocently and fed my quizzical expression.

I thought it was working until Simon leaned close. He pecked my cheek before his lips found my ear. "You're doing it again," he murmured, his mouth brushing my skin.

His breath was hot, his body was close, and my cheeks were suddenly red. I could hardly remember my anxiety from before.

"Doing what?"

I was grinning at the heat pouring from him. I pulled away with a wink, raising his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. "Because I can tell you what we're going to do when we get back, if that's what you want to know."

Simon allowed himself a smile and wink back, but he returned to impassivity too fast for my liking.

"You're distancing yourself again," he accused.

"No, I'm not!" I protested.

"You've been doing it for months. You started after you found out about Geraldine."

"If I was, could you blame me?"

Simon shook his head. "No. But you won't make it through this if you don't find someone to lean on. I don't know what I would've done without Beck and Reed after my mom died."

"I'm leaning on you," I pointed out. "You've been great through all of this."

Simon half-sighed, weapons lowering. "Look, we don't have to talk about this here. We can go back to talk, but I'm worried about you. You need more than me to make it through this. Especially since—"

He cut himself off.

Shit shit shit shit shit—

"Especially since what?"

He glanced around before his eyes fixed slightly above me. Simon leaned back as his fingers tightened on mine; it was his most obvious tell. Alarm bells were going off as loudly as they'd once done at Whitehill.

And when he finally met my eyes, I was struck by his look. I'd seen it before—but I'd never seen it turned my way. God, how I hated the pasty, goopy stickiness of suspicion. I hated the dusty, powdery coating of paranoia. I hated the unholy combination of holy love and sacred forgiveness, and the dimmed mixture of both adoration and wariness currently smeared across his gaze; I hated how much I could see him trying to wipe it off. He didn't want me to see how he doubted me. I didn't want to see it, either.

But, I realized, maybe love can only be so blinding, for so long. Maybe love was never enough to carry the weight of the stones I'd burdened us with.

"Especially since I think you're hiding something from me," he finished.

He'd said it slowly, but unflinchingly. I'd heard it quickly, but devastatingly. My heart accepted it unwillingly, but so goddamn distantly.

I love you. I love you. I do. Oh, god, please, I really do.

"Oh, babe," I mumbled.

It was my turn to step forward and embrace him. I wrapped my arms around his frame, fitting myself into his edges like I was meant to be. I took a moment to think. I took a moment to hide, to pretend for just a few seconds longer.

"Just tell me," Simon breathed into my hair. "Please."

His chest thrummed with begs for my honesty. My own ached with the fear of spilling oily honesty into his clear waters. It'd taint him, and us, and everything that was keeping me going. It'd ruin everything. I was sure of it.

I'd lost everything—so surely I'd lose him, too. I couldn't.

"I want to tell you. I do, but..."

The sunset was stunning when I looked up, when I took a deep breath, when I tried to inhale the beauty. But the caverns in my chest were too large to fill with blood, too empty to be satisfied with fleeting air. The sky was the same colors as that night; the same purples were now peering down as they'd done when she'd—

"But what?" Simon prompted.

"But it's about..." I hesitated again; the words were knives slicing my throat as they came up. "It's about Geraldine. And I-I need some time."

I felt guilty, even though it was true. I felt guilty, as his expression rippled into abashment and understanding, when the strong brow rose and fell over blinking ebony eyes. I felt guilty, when he sucked in a breath, and I could see the pools of love still crystal clear through the hurricanes.

"Okay," Simon breathed, weary as he accepted it. "I love you."

He stepped forward to press a kiss to my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished to be turned to stone. I could live forever with his lips on my skin. I could live forever right then, when nothing else had been demolished yet. I could live forever and still love him for every moment of it.

I could live forever—but it still wouldn't be enough time to outrun what I was due. Geraldine's time had come to an end, but I still heard a ticking. I didn't know what it was. I didn't, but I had an awful feeling bombs still lurked, lit by matches we'd traded before she'd died.

"I love you, Simon."

I said it over his heart, and I imbued every ounce of my own into it. There was so much I withheld, but my heart; my heart, I could give him. My heart, whatever was left of it, wasn't mine to hold anymore.