"The Parsonage Garden at Nuenen in Spring" by Vincent Van Gogh (1884), stolen 2020, recovered September 2023 by Dutch art crime detective Arthur Brand, who received the painting in an IKEA bag at his home in Amsterdam from an unknown man; the painting was relatively unharmed other than some scratches - value $3.2-6.4 million

Chapter Forty-Seven

"Geraldine Whitehill was a remarkable individual. She was the best of us, and I'm proud to say she was my closest friend for many years. She was a lover of the truest art, the most hidden beaches, and the wildest gardens. She was a mother, a grandmother, and a fierce soul. For a long time, she was there when I needed her—correction, when anyone needed her. She was always stubborn to what she believed was right."

Guilty.

"On the way here, I realized we tend to say one-of-a-kind a lot these days. Sometimes, we say it without it being true. We say it without thinking, in fact, but Geraldine... well, Geraldine really was one-of-a-kind. No one had to say it. We just knew."

Guilty.

"My favorite memory of Aunt Gerrie was when I was twelve. I wasn't the nicest kid, so my parents sent me to stay with the Whitehills for a summer. I wasn't sure what to make of it at first. I wasn't used to people being around; I thought I would hardly see her or her husband. Well, truthfully, I believed I'd be sneaking out to the skating rinks all summer, messing with tourists and spending my allowance on sodas for pretty girls. Boy, was I wrong! I learned pretty quick there was nothing like summers with the Whitehills. She knew all of my tricks before I did, and as a kid back then, you can imagine I had plenty. Don't misunderstand, Aunt Gerrie knew how to have fun. No one could find the best shells on the beach like she could, or spot the most shark teeth. Before I knew it, I was being showed up at the rink by my aunt, who looked cooler than everyone else with her custom blue, bejeweled skates, skating backwards faster than I could run..."

Guilty.

"My parents didn't go to college. They weren't given the opportunity. I didn't think I would either, until Geraldine Whitehill changed everything for my family. It sounds so banal, but her scholarship changed my life—changed my family's life. Today, I stand before you with a doctorate in neurology and a degree in art education, exploring the effects of art therapy on post-traumatic stress disorder. Today, I'm helping others, because Geraldine helped me understand the power of art. I owe her everything."

Guilty.

"My mom meant the world to me. Growing up, she was the world. My mom was bigger and brighter than the world could ever hope to be. I know not everyone can say this about their parents, so I consider myself truly lucky that I can. She never let me feel like anything but enough. She never wanted anything but happiness for me—and she was that happiness for so many people. My parents taught me strength and perseverance, kindness and generosity. My mother taught me... my mom taught me there is always something beautiful to be found. I will always be thankful my kids got to know her. I see her in them every day."

Guilty.

"For over forty years, the Whitehill Foundation has paved the way for creatives to find the beauty in the world. To say something in a universal language, and to speak to us all. Geraldine Whitehill's legacy lives on. It will always live on, as she would have wanted. For as long as there's people willing to love art, there will be art ready to be made and loved."

Guilty.

"To the world, she was Geraldine Whitehill. But to me..." August's voice broke. The room was silent. We watched him tip his chin to the ceiling, close his eyes, and plant himself sturdier than a jacaranda. We watched, as a grandson prepared himself to say goodbye. We watched, as a stoic man hid a grieving boy behind layers of canvas and paint.

Guilt is in the eyes of the beholder, summoned by that which they carry.

When August looked down, the warble in his tone had been crushed to submission; he'd steeled himself to a mask of elegant grief. But I knew. I knew, more than anyone else, that there were flecks of rust in his eyes and holes in his heart. I knew, because I had them, too; I knew, because I knew Augustus Whitehill.

"To me, she was Gramma," he finished, "and she was the best damn grandmother anyone could have asked for."

My eyes closed. I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch.

"Geraldine Whitehill was—"

The room was still watching, still listening, still mourning, as person by person came up to pay their respects. To talk about Geraldine. To say 'was' over and over and over and over.

She was. She was. She was. She was. She isn't anymore. She was. She was. She was. She never will be again. But, goddamnit, she was.

Geraldine Whitehill was. And now she isn't. Now, she's gone. Things were never said. Truths were never told. Nothing was finished, or resolved, or explained. Her grave had swallowed our secrets sooner than anyone had expected. The chance to change my mind, to tell her, had been shorter than it was supposed to be. What if I wanted to tell her now?

Who would be listening if I told the truth?

Simon's fingers were gentle as they brushed over my wrist.

I opened my eyes.

His touch left trails of goosebumps until he reached my hand, threading his fingers with mine as he sat next to me in the pew—even though we shouldn't. Even though it should've been a secret. It wasn't a secret anywhere else, but here, now, it should've been. It should've been a secret today; love should've been buried, too.

But Simon held my hand, stubborn and true in his convictions, and he lovingly grounded me in that church. He held my hand, like he'd always held me, and he kept me close, keeping me here down on earth. Here, under the stained glass and cavernous ceiling. He held me to keep me from running. To prevent me from escorting myself out—because I shouldn't have been here. But I had to be. I had to be here. Because she was Geraldine, and she was gone, and I—

"Now, we'll hear from Geraldine's favorite student. Her mentee, who was as close to a second granddaughter as one could get: Eleanor Vaycker."

The eyes of God were watching from the pulpit. People turned in their seats. They craned their necks and bit their tongues as they looked for me. Brows were raised, heads were shaken, mouths were flattened. Perhaps they didn't know where I should've been, unsure where I deserved to be in that church, but where I wasn't sitting was worthy of note to them.

Because I wasn't at the front.

The Whitehill family sat there with the rest of the museum team, but I hid in the back. I was sorry for that. I should've been brave enough, or audacious enough, to sit closer. I should've—

Simon squeezed my hand. Solid brown eyes were looking at me, too. Serious, dark, beautiful eyes that offered me a place to seek comfort, to sap some of his strength and use it for my own needs. He was pouring his comfort into me. Lord, I didn't know if he knew how big the hole inside of me was, though; if he knew how much of him was wasted on a coward.

Guilty.

Simon was writing me poetry with his gaze and promising me heaven with his touch. He was swearing his loyalty with his hand in mine, tipping his cup to flood my own as I desiccated under the heat of their stares. But our moment wasn't one of forever. Not yet. This moment was a reprieve, but it wasn't everlasting; it was expiring. I had more judges to stand before, more admissions of guilt to confess, and more juries to run from. I had more pockets to empty, and more stones to throw back.

Guilty.

When the silence got too deafening, I stood.

My knees wanted to buckle; my knuckles wanted to pop; my heart wanted to choke on its own startling beat. I was clammy and scared. Shit, I was terrified. But I made my way to the aisle. Simon's hand stayed in mine until I pulled away. I walked to the front of the church and kept my eyes on the mountain of flowers waiting for me.

Even Lucifer would weep at God's stone. Even the guilty would honor the fallen. Even the arsonist would remember the burned.

Even I would be here—speaking at Geraldine's funeral.

My steps were too loud on the tile. It echoed too deeply, like thunder on this sunny day. But I could only hear my heart now. I could only listen to it threaten to rupture, to spill crimson on white marble, to stain a sanctuary with the poppy red of a liar's bloody lips. Too many people were looking at me as I stood at the podium. Too many people were waiting to hear what I had to say, waiting for me to give them something else to talk about, expecting it like I owed them. Too many people weren't able to be here at all, because even a private ceremony for Geraldine overflowed a room.

Guilty.

I stood clutching the podium while my knuckles went white, fighting the tremble of my legs as I looked out to an assorted audience. I could see them, like they now tried to see me. But I had always seen them—even when they hadn't seen me—even when they hadn't wanted to grace me an undemanding thought. I could see every long face; I'd memorized the sorrowful gauntness and the narrowed eyes of the accusers. I could see it all.

I could see the Whitehills. The family was a mosaic of emotions; the tear-streaked cheeks of Eliza, the stony mask of August, the mournful gaze of Geraldine's son, the solemnity of her daughter-in-law. Lena sat beside August, too, her cheek on his shoulder as they leaned against each other. And my parents were here; they sat a few rows behind the Whitehills, with the rest of the inner circle, unabashedly wielding their scrutinizing gazes. This close, I could see how Carrie clung to Scott's arm. I could see the storms in her eyes and floods on her lashes as she looked at me.

Everyone was looking at me.

Guilty.

Even across the city's largest cathedral, I could see the depths of Simon's eyes as they marveled me. My love's arms had never trembled while he held the world up. He'd never flinched from the screams of my galaxy as it fell apart. He'd never turned away as I tumbled, or waited to view the aftermath from safety like the others had. No, he'd reached out to catch me instead. He'd run to hold me, he'd climbed to save me.

He'd always waited for me.

The microphone on the podium was waiting.

The room was waiting.

Even Geraldine was waiting.

"Geraldine Whitehill was..." I paused, nauseous. Everything was wet, and shaky, and crumbling. God, they couldn't know that. They didn't need to know that. I couldn't let them know.

So I took a breath and turned away from the room. I faced the ornate casket, hardly visible beneath the flood of blooms, and felt myself crumble with every exhale, then rebuild with every inhale. I had nothing to say to them. I had nothing to say to the audience, to the onlookers, to their straining ears—but I had everything to say to her. I didn't know what I believed came after death, but I hoped what I said would be cathartic to at least one of us.

"You were Geraldine Whitehill," I started quietly.

"You taught me about art, and history, and running an empire when others never expected it of you. You told me to never apologize for what I did. To never apologize for the choices I made when I did it for me, or for good; no matter how small the good was. You implored me to never apologize for being okay. And I..."

The scents of the fragrant blooms were making my head hurt. I had to power through; I had to finish this. I had to say goodbye.

"And I think you said that because you never did. You took care of you, your family, and your museum with a strength there aren't enough hands in the world to applaud. You helped me when I needed it. You found me when I didn't know I was looking, and you gave me a place to belong. You—you kept my secrets, Geraldine."

Her portrait looked back at me from the bed of flowers. That widow wasn't weeping. That widow was memorialized in oil with a gentle smile, a perfect grace, and a golden heart.

But that widow is gone now, too.

Geraldine's painted eyes watched me as I spoke before her. "We didn't end things the way I thought we would," I lamented.

"I didn't say all the things I should've said. I never asked you everything I should've asked, and I don't think I'll ever know now. But I... well, I want you to know that even though your secrets didn't make it to your grave, they'll make it to mine. They won't be given to anyone who shouldn't have them. I promise. And I'm—"

I forgot about the room. I forgot about the judgement of God as I stood on his doorstep. But I remembered what she told me.

And I still couldn't do it.

"—I'm sorry, Geraldine," I whispered.

I took one last look at the painting where it resided.

One last look at the smooth wood of her casket, and one last look at the widow we'd lost. Then I turned back around, and returned to the exile I'd come to claim as choice.

The room watched. I didn't care anymore. Geraldine was gone. There was nothing more to be said; there was nothing more to hurt me. I returned to the shelter Simon Gastapolous gave me, and I closed the door on the red skies outside, content to live out the ending in peace.