"The Scream" by Edvard Munch (1893), stolen 1994 and 2004, recovered 1994 and 2006 - value $120 million

Chapter Nine

Simon Gatz was tall, loud, and intimidating. He was everything I needed him to be in that moment.

When I'd pitched myself forward, hoping to break through the ranks of reporters to the other side, I hadn't been sure I'd make it. I could only just see the crowd of security that gathered outside the back door of the museum, pushing back the reporters and dispelling their ranks with fierce precision and trained certainty. It was Simon and his men, all dressed to the nines.

In that moment, I wondered if this was how the president felt with Secret Service. Surrounded by those willing to protect; eager to return to the comfort of clustered suits and ties, to the men those trim garments covered. But unlike the president, my attempts at getting through a crowd weren't met with embedded caution. Instead, I was only making sluggish headway to the door, too meek to barrel through and feeling increasingly frustrated.

Maybe a few toes did need to be stepped on.

There was confusion in the lot, as reporters scrambled to make way for angry security men and hastened off the property they trespassed on. Cameras still resolutely caught the scene as masses of people bumbled and jostled; the fear of being identified and prosecuted was weighed against the desire for a story as they hurriedly tripped over themselves. Even now, media teams fought for every snippet of footage they could as they fled, knowing it was a gold mine and they had the tools to excavate.

In truth, it would be a good news story, with headlines trumpeting reports of chaos and describing addled museum officials who ran from questions when confronted. The tapestry the media was seeking to weave of the theft and the events that'd followed would soon take a clearer form in the eyes of the public, and the story they liked to tell would soon grasp an even stronger hold on history. It was needless to say it wouldn't look good for us. It'd be another perceived fumble by the museum, another indication of our splintered organization and disrupted cohesion, the illnesses that'd allowed cracks wide enough for others to slip through.

Like the night of the theft, the same night I'd bid farewell to my quiet, guilt and nausea swirled in tempestuous tendrils. The media had already decided the theft was a symptom of the rich's folly. A socialite overwhelmed by media attention and hard-hitting accusations would only prove the point they sought to make.

Through the chaos, through the guilt, I heard the tall CEO of Riverwide Security lobbing orders with firm direction and certainty. With steel expertise, with wrought-iron order. The kind I hadn't seen from him yet, but the kind that proved why he bore the title he did; and the kind that encouraged the gratefulness blooming in my chest.

Simon's eyes found mine, connected in the commotion. Even with the distance I saw his narrowed gaze and untamable might. He didn't look away; the moment stretched and threatened the shifting sands I already felt rippling beneath my feet. I wasn't sure he even blinked, refusing to look at the reporters that scurried away from his threatening presence, or perhaps he didn't spare them any mind. With every passing moment, his eyes grew harder, more intense, more...

Just more.

Then he finally reached me, having made much easier headway than I could, and his hand outstretched and wrapped around my arm. His grip wasn't painful. It was unrelenting and strong as he guided me closer to him; close enough to be in his space, his protection, his shadow. I was close enough for his cologne to delicately trace my nose, only a fleeting soft wave before dispelled in the air of chaos. It was subtle, definitely European, and complexly alluring. It was Simon. Simon with his head on a swivel, his mouth firmly set, and his eyes the dark, deceiving shade I recognized. Eyes that seemed even brighter now, alit with adrenaline and anger, but eyes that fell partly hidden beneath brows crinkled in furious solemnity.

Simon's hand held me firmly, long fingers wrapped and locked around my forearm in a comforting lifeline. This close, I realized just how tall he was, and just how much I'd shrunk under the accusatory onslaught. If I'd maintained my height when confronted, I wouldn't now be a mailbox beneath a skyscraper. But I was—and I despised it.

That brilliant, unyieldingly solid gaze of his left mine briefly, flicking down to scan for injuries before rejoining the connection.

"Don't say a word," he instructed.

His voice wasn't as loud as when it'd crashed over the heads of the clustered group, but it was loud enough for me to hear, and just as assertive. I felt a flash of something at his words. Incredulity, maybe, that he thought I'd relinquish anything to the hungry masses. Admittedly, I'd felt the temptation just moments before, but I knew better.

I knew better.

I did.

My incredulity crackled and fizzled out quickly with that thought. Because Simon didn't know that. He didn't know that I knew better. He didn't know that though I might weather and diminish, I'd never yield or cave. Simon was only doing his job. That included protecting his clients from foolish mishaps, thoughtless words, and twisted headlines. He didn't know what I was, or rather what I wasn't, capable of.

So, Simon's words were quick. They were an order; the only one that needed to be urgently said before we reached the interior of the museum. The rest could wait. It was an order I recognized, so I shook my head, my voice nowhere near his decibels, but rising.

"I didn't," I promised. "And I won't, of course not."

Even with the instinctual increase in volume that accompanied being in loud places, I wasn't sure if he could hear me over the questions still raining on our heads. But his men were doing well at herding the others away, and his chin dipped in confirmation. His stable grip was pulling me forward and away even as we spoke. Before I knew it, I was in the sanctuary I knew so well, and the shouted accusations were only echoes in my ears; only muffled offers of treason behind the door.

"Get them off the property! Find Lach," Simon commanded to his team. "I don't care if they buy a damn ticket, no press allowed near the premises."

Simon's orders were swiftly followed; there was no room for argument in his strict tone or authoritative demeanor. His back turned to me as he spoke, and his hand swiftly dropped my arm like my touch had been too painful to maintain. I shelved the hurt that threatened to sprout, because there were more important things that needed his focus than anchoring me to the museum, or to the present.

"Yes, sir."

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

My fingers curled and flexed.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

My shoulders rolled back.

One, two, three.

And I was back. My walls were rebuilt, snapping back faster than the time it took to tumble them; my demeanor once again carefully crafted. It was done quickly, silently, and forcefully. It was done before Simon could turn to me.

So when he did, surely expecting the startled woman he'd pulled from the curious masses but seeing only a poised official, his folded brows lifted. It was quick, only a fleeting reaction before the carved features of living marble settled into a cool expression to match my own. He was now as guarded as Geraldine's vault at her estate—a spot that perhaps would've been a better place for the Widow to reside.

Simon Gatz was no fool, no amateur, and no stranger to the control I had. He had as firm of a grip on it as I did. Like a muscle to be flexed, Simon and I used our well-worn skills to match the other in harmonious dances with devils. I didn't show my own surprise at his ability to mask, but retightened my grip on my guise, and meticulously added to what I knew of Simon. He was skilled. Skilled at how many things, I didn't know. But I knew enough, and I allowed that knowledge to drive a deeper wedge.

"Ma'am, are you alright?"

His words were slower, softer, quieter. No longer the unflinching words he'd flung out at his team, ordering them to subdue the flames that kicked at the door in hopes of smoking us out. It was something different. A tone I dared not define, because doing so would surely cause suspicion and confusion, and I only had time for one of those.

"I'm fine," I replied. "I'm glad your team was here to assist. Thank you."

His head dipped in a brief acknowledgment, and his eyes dropped down again. Simon nodded as he verified my words, seeing I told the truth of my physical well-being, and his sharp gaze cooled significantly. "If you're sure, then."

"I am. Thank you, again, for your help. Do you know if August is back yet?"

"I do," Simon said. "He arrived a few minutes before you. He's in his office, should I go get him?"

"No, no. That's fine. I'll head there. We need to meet with the media team. It needs to be all of us, and it needs to be today. This has gotten out of hand. I'm not sure what just happened, or why, but I plan to determine the full scope." My words bit with frustration, feeling the nips of anger and emotional uncertainty at my heels.

Simon's expression was mostly impassive as he listened, save the tiniest hint of surprise peeking out of his gated eyes. It was gone almost immediately; snuffed so fast I could've talked myself into believing I'd imagined it.

It would've been easy to convince myself I hadn't seen it, that his control had kept its iron grip, that what I saw was only a side effect of the illusion I knew he maintained. But I'd learned long ago to trust my own eyes. I paused to study the walls he'd hammered back into place in that split-second.

Why is Simon surprised I'm confused on what just happened? Is it so hard to believe I was blindsided by the media's honed attack? What makes him doubt me?

"Yes, ma'am. I agree," he said easily, showing no hint of what I sought to identify. "We'll need a comprehensive, united plan to ensure the media stays where the museum wants them."

"Yes, both figuratively and literally. I'll inform the Whitehills what happened. I expect we'll all meet sooner rather than later to discuss it further."

I could feel the pull to accept that perhaps I hadn't seen it at all—that stress was a potent aggravator to memory, trust, and the brain's circuitry.

"This won't happen again, ma'am. Brash trespassing won't be allowed—or any kind of trespassing." His tone was as dark as his eyes, as stubborn as his widow's peak, and as resolute as his cologne. I nodded. There wasn't much else to do.

"It's 'Eleanor'. Too many 'ma'am's' in one day."

I sighed and shifted my head to gently press my fingers beneath my ear. It would almost look like I was supporting my head, but it was a subconscious flow of movement with no real purpose. I was spinning in my tracks without any forward progress. I had nothing to say. Instead, I felt the sweeping flood of mismatched thoughts increasingly churn, offering distraction like smoke distracted lungs from flames growling at skin. I turned with little regard of a smoother end to our exchange, and instead headed towards the front of the museum, towards the stairs that would bring me to August. I vaguely registered Simon turning, too. He was gesturing to his team and preparing to launch into a full-fledged 'anti-press' mission. But I suddenly paused in my steps, spinning around to face him as a need for answers nudged me to request truth.

"Simon?"

Simon glanced up, surprise once more a minuscule flicker of burnt candle wax in inky darkness. He answered, "Yes, Eleanor?"

"You're surprised I don't know why the media approached me so boldly. Why? Is there something I don't know?"

I'd never been one to hold back when it came to advantages. I'd always played my cards right, and I'd always known when to bluff. When to be bold, when to be foolish, when to fold. So, I watched and waited to see what other skills I could expect from Mr. Gatz.

Simon evaluated me silently. He folded.

"Your name is no stranger to media," he finally said, his words carved to fit the space collapsing between us. I nodded. Those words were two-fold, their meaning as potentially dangerous as a two-headed snake. I wondered if they were shared with the intention of both, or if his words were only double-edged to me and my understanding. If he only meant one meaning, which one was it?

One was tied to the very name itself, and the other had complexities I didn't wish to dig through. One referred to a lifetime of dolloped attention, and the other referred to the sudden outpouring of it. So, though I knew when to bluff, I also knew when to play it safe.

"I know."

His head tilted, heavy intensity and yet gentle concern caught in the space between his planted stance and my undecided one. He seemed to be determining something.

"It's gotten worse," he acknowledged gently.

I hated him then. I hated everything about him. How he commanded my attention, his strong presence in every room he resided in, his eyes that seemed entirely too knowing for my liking. And I was conflicted. My tongue was sticky, latched on the top of my mouth like an urchin, and my throat was dry.

"I hadn't realized."

"You hadn't?"

"Do you google your own name often?" I snapped.

I'd lied, but I didn't wallow in that wrongdoing. Regardless of whether his meaning was layered, it all led to one destination and back to one point of creation. And he'd sounded doubtful, phrasing it less like the intended question, and instead like a statement that didn't sit well on his own tongue. That'd tickled a flaw of mine, causing my hasty response, that for a beat echoed in the back staff entrance of Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery.

"Not lately," Simon finally admitted.

I stopped, regarding him quietly. No, I was sure he didn't look online at what people said of him. A new CEO bouncing back after a scandalous earthquake in his company wouldn't venture online.

Realizing I risked reputation and perception if I didn't give him something to work with, I begrudgingly admitted more.

"I—well, I knew some of it. What they were saying online. But they were just rumors, and so... far from me. I assumed..."

I hesitated and puffed the slightest of breaths, hoping to fill lungs that weren't sure how to provide. "When the reporters started asking questions, I figured the rumors had grown," I backtracked. I was assuming his meaning, assuming he'd been referring to recent online chatter, and I knew I had guessed correctly. I would never be so lucky as for it to be the uncomplicated one.

"What were the questions?"

A new play, a new move, a new decision. Another breath. I met his eyes, knowing what had to be said deserved our full attention.

"Things they couldn't have known unless they were heard in these walls."

Simon's expression darkened at my words. My revelation had struck his own sore spot, clashing with his past and warning of his future.

I shook my head and stepped away. I was clearly more vulnerable than expected; I didn't have time for this. "I have to go."

I turned, and this time I didn't turn back.

"El!"

August's startled exclamation, the concern in his shocked blue eyes, the wide steps he took around his desk to get to me. They were too much. Too real. But like the night we'd lost our Widow, I gritted my teeth and pulled it together.

"August. The media—"

"I heard," he interrupted, reaching to pull me into a hug. "The whole museum just got a blast of alerts from Gatz. I was about to come find you."

"You... what?" I asked, muffled into his shoulder. His hand squeezed my arm as he drew back, his expression upset but composed. The type of expression I should've been able to master too, because it was the kind trained into us as part of our birthright.

"Gatz just sent out a brief list of rules and safety regulations concerning media relations. It wasn't long, I'm sure we'll get a long one later," he spoke quickly, waving his hand in dismissal before changing the subject. "He also sent me a message about you. He said reporters cornered you in the parking lot. What happened?"

His words were urgent and concerned, trying to encourage a prompt response, but I was shocked into silence. While it'd taken me a few minutes to get to August, stopped every few feet by stressed or chatty employees, Simon still hadn't had a lot of time to do anything of the sort. He had to have done it immediately after I'd walked away. I begrudgingly added 'thoughtful' to my ever-growing information about Simon Gatz.

"I don't know," I admitted. "It happened so fast. The reporters were in the front, then suddenly they were right there in the parking lot. They followed me from my car. Do you know if this has happened to anyone else?"

August shook his head. "They've approached a couple others, but the employees knew to send them to our public relations team, and the reporters always backed off without issue. This is the first time they haven't. Other than a few calls from stations here and there, it's been relatively quiet for a while."

"I would check if anyone else got more calls today," I said glumly.

I sighed and slumped down into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Instead of the plush purple chairs found in Geraldine's office, August had harder black ones. There wasn't much comfort to be found in their sturdy backs and cushion-less surfaces.

"What? Are you saying they've been calling you on top of this?"

"I got a couple calls in the past hour from news channels demanding interviews. Yeah, demanding, not asking. Some of these reporters are real bitches, too. Marcus Lightley at News Tonight. Alexis O'Connell from Central News. Jared Fredis from some random radio station I can't even remember. They won't stop." I huffed. I ended at a much higher volume than I'd started with.

Suddenly, I wasn't a coworker of August having a conversation about work, I was his best friend having a mental breakdown. My voice was getting louder and louder, and my heart-rate was spinning up and out. I wasn't Eleanor Vaycker, exhibit coordinator. I was Ellie, his best friend, becoming unglued and angry. Right then, I was looking to curse and moan about others, to release resentment about the situation as fast as I could.

But August knew me. He knew the scattered breaths that rippled in my shaking lungs, the trembles that'd taken my hands from use, and the furious flush that flooded my cheeks. He knew when I needed a hug, when I needed a nudge, and when I needed a shoulder. In that moment, I think I needed all three.

"El, I'm sorry."

He sat next to me, tugged my chair closer to his, and wrapped an arm around me. I slumped into his side, realizing I'd had a moment of snapped temper and flustered frustration, and knowing it needed to ebb.

August continued, "Why are they going after you? What changed?"

It was silent for a pulsing moment, one of many that day. Similar to the moment a final card is placed on its tower, and the body's too scared to breathe. Frozen in fear of moving one's fingers, even when the card's been released from grip, as if the movement might exert a ghostly pull and topple an empire. Or a Jenga block half-pulled out, but feeling the tower shift, knowing the situation had turned even more precarious.

"You... You haven't been online, have you?" I asked.

August turned his head slightly to look at me, his chin dipped and his eyes confused. "Online? I've seen some of it. People making jokes, skits, all that. They'll stop when the next big story comes out."

"No, I mean blogs. Twitter? Reddit? Any of those?"

"No. Why? What have people been saying?"

The tower trembled, shook, and threatened. But I pulled the block out, and pulled my hand away.

"That I did it. That I stole the painting, and that's why I was the first one there."