"View of Auvers-sur-Oise" by Paul Cezanne (1879/1880), stolen 1999 - value $10 million

Chapter One

Geraldine Whitehill was a proud woman.

She had the type of pride that didn't intermingle with arrogance, but instead seeped from honor. Pride wasn't used as fuel for elite reasonings or unyielding ego. It flickered in her as a warm celebratory light borne from her loved ones, her life, and her endeavors. She was proud, but she was proud of others and what she had achieved, and it was rightfully earned.

That made it different from arrogant pride. Arrogant pride didn't bend under the weight of wrongdoings; it fed narcissistic tendencies and corrupted the mind. Celebratory pride nurtured relationships and cultivated selflessness.

Geraldine Whitehill was a proud woman.

She'd reached her late seventies but hadn't yet crumpled under the weight of her years or reached a state of frailty. She was no young dame, as she often jokingly reminded us, but that only meant she had more to share. She aged with grace, as the best people tended to do.

She was my role model. A matron of the arts, a grandmother, a widow. She spent her days digging into the roots of the community and planting color among the desiccations. She encouraged growth and recovery when hardship rocked foundations and wills. At the time of the theft, she'd been a pillar of the local community and art world for over forty years.

When her husband died over ten years before, a withdrawn man who adored her and her pursuits, Geraldine had dedicated herself completely to art and its various forms. She'd thrown herself into another branch of passion to make up for what she'd lost with her husband's death. Choosing to seek another form of it where she could, unable to find passion in love anymore until she was reunited with him—yet it'd still burned within her. The fiery thrill laid dormant until channeled elsewhere, when she'd flipped the coin and explored another form. There was passion in love and there was passion in art. She'd lost her love, but she hadn't lost art.

And she loved art.

The gallery was a monument to her and her family. Whitehill Museum and Art Gallery was one of her sources of pride, and I could still remember opening night. A dazzling affair filled with champagne and checkbooks, but the most memorable portion of the evening hadn't been the ribbon cutting, or her grandson's speech, or even the first trickle of guests into the exhibits. It'd been Geraldine. It'd been the look on her face when she'd realized how much art would be shared. When she'd realized the scope of all the new programs that'd feed the creativity of children, all of the people who'd get to see what she saw in the works around the museum. That'd been a great night.

It was two years later, and I would have to tell my mentor what portion of truth I could. The woman I looked up to, who I worshiped and tried to emulate, would have to be told what happened.

The Weeping Widow was gone. The shining jewel of Whitehill had been stolen.

The gallery was crawling with cops, security, museum employees, and so many others. It was late, but the bustle that followed crime had only just started. I answered what questions I could, gave my statements, and checked in with detectives, but I was waiting for her.

It was my job to tell her.

Not only because I was there at the time and had worked there for years, but I was also a family friend of the Whitehills. If there was anyone I would want to deliver the blow, as much as it may personally pain me, it was myself.

I knew she would've been reached as soon as any commotion began, the family surely informed the moment the alarms went off. The works there either belonged to her, were on loan from her close circle, or were borrowed from other galleries. Save a few pieces meticulously displayed at her estate for personal enjoyment, the museum held much of her private collection. The works were mostly on rotation, except for a few permanent residents of the hallowed halls. The Weeping Widow was one of the permanent works. She'd cried day and night in her ornate frame, but now she wept somewhere else. Somewhere Whitehill no longer protected her.

My mind buzzed, overrun by realizations and fear of what would come next, but Geraldine resided over everything. Every bouncing thought gave way under the weight of my hesitant, gloomy thoughts about Geraldine. She held the top spot in my head as I waited. It would break her heart.

"Eleanor!" The call rang out. It struck over the heads of museum personnel and police officers, settling in my gut and reigniting the acidic burn of dread. I gritted my teeth and turned, prepared for the first hard conversation of the night. It was showtime.

"August," I greeted the man, emotion creeping up my throat. He stepped through the throng until he reached me, his eyes wide and golden locks mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. I was sure he had. It was a tic from stress, something Augustus Whitehill was no stranger to.

He looked breathless when he made it to me, standing a few paces away like getting any closer would subject him to the heavy weight of sorrow that crushed me. Maybe he could feel it, like an aura that snaked around me and kept him away.

"They're saying—"

"They're right. It's gone," I admitted. I hastily averted my gaze from his piercing one. "She's gone. Someone took her."

I heard a deep sigh and turned just in time to see his hand tug through his loose curls, just as I'd predicted. I knew my best friend well.

"Shit," he breathed. He shook his head. "When I got that call, all I could think about was—"

"Geraldine," I agreed. He nodded.

We stood in silence for a moment, each eying the other like one of us would yell 'sike!' and this would all be a painful joke. It wasn't. The painting was gone.

"I went to the estate as soon as I heard, but she wasn't there. Have you seen her? I couldn't have gotten here first." He turned, gazing over the heads of the crowd for his grandmother.

"I haven't. I've been waiting."

I swallowed dryly, staring blankly at the man before me. It was the middle of the night, and August had clearly come over in a rush. His hair was untidy from his anxieties and limited time in bed, and his face was pale and drawn. Pale from a lack of sleep or shock, I wasn't sure. Most likely an unhealthy dose of both. He wore pants and a collared shirt, but they were rumpled like he'd thrown on the first thing he could find before rushing out the door. He probably had.

His heavy eyes swept the room, but he found no sign of Geraldine. His shoulders sagged, and his hand tugged at his hair again.

"How are we going to tell her? Have they told you anything?" He tilted his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning his tired gaze back to me. "Who's the head detective?"

It was too many questions for this hour, too many questions for my numb oblivion of shock, but I pieced together a response anyway.

"I don't know. I don't know how you tell someone their prized possession was stolen." I bitterly shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket, shivering though we were inside, protected from the faint chill of a California September. "They haven't told me anything. They asked a shit ton of questions and took some statements, but that's it. I've seen a couple detectives so far, but no one said anything about a head detective."

How do you tell someone the joy of her pride, the very spark of her spirit, had been ripped from her grasp? Quite literally ripped from the walls? Because that's what the painting was to her. It was everything. Other than her grandchildren, of course.

It wasn't an easy thing to prepare for. The Weeping Widow was the pride of Geraldine's collection, and to have it so callously snatched from its sanctuary was a difficult thing to comprehend.

Not to mention the painting's worth millions.

"I'm going to find someone to talk to," August decided. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to demand answers we both knew they wouldn't have. But he paused first and turned to me with a curious expression. "How did you find out? That it was stolen, I mean? Did they call you?"

I dropped my gaze from his, taking a moment to absorb the bustle of our surroundings.

"I was still here," I admitted.

August sighed, an almost accusatory bite in his eyes as he shook his head. "We talked about you working late. You're allowed to go home, you know."

"I'm fully aware. I'm also aware the exhibit proposal is due on Friday and the fundraiser committee has a checklist a mile long. The museum doesn't run itself."

"No, it doesn't," August said. "But nobody expects you to work well into the night. The fundraiser isn't on your shoulders alone, and neither is the exhibit proposal."

"Right."

"You could have worked on it tomorrow."

"It's fine," I replied. "It's quiet at night and I like being here. Or at least I do when people aren't breaking in."

It was too soon for that, and August winced at the reminder. But I didn't want to admit the real reason I was still at the museum, so I choked back the apology on my tongue.

"Did you see anything?" he asked, dropping the lecture. I was glad. For a man still a few years off from thirty, he could give one hell of a chastising. It was because he cared, but I didn't need anyone setting a curfew or hovering over what I did. I didn't need him fussing over my long hours, especially not when I enjoyed what I was doing. Not when I was spending it there, surrounded by art.

The only thing that matters is art.

I silently repeated the mantra, digging it under my skin and hoping to relieve the antsy nerves that threatened to unravel me before my childhood friend.

"No. I was in my office. I heard alarms and ran out. That's when I noticed the glass."

My office was in the back of the museum, tucked away from visitor's eyes. Most of the offices were on the second floor, but mine and a select few had a tiny wing beyond the last exhibit. The same exhibit where the Weeping Widow once hung, but now was cordoned off to be prowled by investigators.

"How did they manage to get in, let alone get the painting? And if the alarms went off, then how did they manage to get away before anyone arrived?" August asked, sweeping his eyes between mine with bewildered desperation. I could only offer a hopeless shrug.

"I guess they'll have to hope the security footage has some answers."

His questions were valid. The alarms should have gone off immediately, but they'd only been going off for what felt like seconds when I made it to the room, and I hadn't seen a soul.

August nodded, giving me one last grave look before he disappeared back into the crowd, setting off to chase a detective down. It wouldn't be long before the case moved even higher up the food chain. The police had locked down the museum immediately, barring anyone from entering the exhibit. It was just a matter of waiting for the big dogs to arrive now.

I meandered through the main room of the museum, the entrance still flooded with people coming and going. Some people were buzzing with the energy of a newsworthy event, and others had serious expressions of dread. Tomorrow, as well as the foreseeable future, would be one headache after another.

No museum wanted to be known for an art heist, let alone a successful one.

Pulled donations, reluctant artists, crumbled reputations, and poor press were only a few of the many things that could result from this. It could eventually lead to the downfall of Whitehill altogether if the dominos fell just right. It could take years for it to happen, but many factors could wither our strength until there was nothing left to love. Decay was destructive no matter how much it dragged its feet.

I looked for Geraldine again but found no trace of the elderly woman. No one had seen her yet, but August said she'd been on her way. She should have been at the museum already.

I felt the prickles of anxiety, the fluttery weight of being overwhelmed beginning to settle in my chest. It was too many people, too many things to do, too many officials that would have to be informed. Too many fires had been lit in one night, and I wasn't sure the museum could withstand the heat.

I hoped it could. I loved Whitehill. I truly hoped the museum recovered from the loss. The team would hopefully rally, fully supported by the art community, stomping out the flames that threatened Whitehill's reputation and future. I didn't care about damages to my career or anything like that, I only cared about art.

But who would want to keep their art in a museum that lost its main attraction?

Overwhelmed with the chaos, and needing a reprieve from the horrible night, I went back to my office. I wouldn't be able to leave for a while, and certainly not until the police had finished their questioning for the night. I was sure there'd be even more tomorrow, and maybe even after that, but for the moment I was left alone. I retreated to my home base.

When I pushed the door open, I immediately realized my office wasn't empty. There Geraldine sat, illuminated by the dull lights of my boxy office. She sat stiffly in the desk chair, gazing down at the fundraiser paperwork and exhibit planning I had scattered on my desk. Though, I wasn't convinced she was actually seeing the papers; she looked distracted, and her gaze was settled blankly on the disorganized paperwork.

"Geraldine?"

I wasn't allowed to call her Mrs. Whitehill, and she didn't appreciate Ms. Geraldine either. She said it was too formal, and she didn't agree with most formalities. She didn't want to be Mrs. Whitehill, owner of the museum. She wanted to be Geraldine, lover of the arts, when she was here. Despite belonging to upper class art circles that exuded exclusivity and riches, she liked to avoid falling into stereotypes.

She liked to keep people on their feet, unsure what to expect from her unpredictable and untamable spirit. She liked the wildness and depth of art, not the price tags. Even when formal affairs were held at the museum, or distinct behaviors were demanded of her and her societal position, Geraldine tried to avoid stepping on the toes of art's free nature. She didn't believe art was the trading cards of the wealthy, she believed it was the soul of culture and history.

I admired Geraldine, and I was drowning in apologies for what she'd lost.

"Geraldine?" I asked again, still rooted in the doorway of my office. She finally glanced up.

"Eleanor. Nice to see you." Her gaze was still distracted as she acknowledged me. It'd been almost two weeks since I'd last seen her, but she looked much the same. Even as her museum trembled with a domino-knocking event, she was as elegant and graceful as ever. Her frame showed the touch of age but her poise remained as steadfast as when we'd first met. Her eyes were intense and knowing like they always were, but there was something off now in those depths.

She'd only been back from New York for a day or two before this happened. It wasn't the welcome back she should've had. I was sure she had been planning to be at the museum first thing tomorrow to dive into fundraiser planning, but instead she was forced to rush over tonight to hear horrible news. Horrible news I would give, if she hadn't heard already.

There she was, sitting at my desk with a cloudy expression and a troubled air. Waiting.

"I'm... glad I found you." I stepped hesitantly in, taking unsteady steps until I sunk into one of the chairs in front of my desk. It was probably unusual, me being on the opposite side of my own desk, but everything about the night had been rather unusual so far.

"Yes, I arrived a little while ago."

"Did you talk to anyone?" I asked slowly. It was odd she was in my office.

"Not yet."

I waited, watching as she seemed to delicately order her next words. Her eyes found mine.

"What happened tonight?"

A heavy silence warped the air in my lungs. Now I wished August were here to help. Maybe the blow would be softer from her grandson, and I never did well under Geraldine's sharp gaze. I'd learned how watchful, how skillfully appraising, she was over the years. Most people seemed to think she was either an elderly widow tottering around her estate, or a ditzy ex-trophy wife left with an unmanageably large fortune. I knew she was neither.

Or maybe she was both, depending on who you asked, and the Geraldine they were shown.

"What do you know?" I asked, taking the easy way out. I was grasping at any temporary reprieve I could. Geraldine settled back in the chair, her expression thoughtful and wary.

"I got a call the alarms went off, but the situation was still being assessed. Owen didn't know the extent of it, but he knew enough to recommend I head here immediately." She brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her pants, glancing at me. "I imagine the situation has now been assessed."

"Yes, ma'am."

I was glad it was Owen, the head of security at the museum, who'd called her. He hadn't been here, but I knew he would've gotten an immediate call from the night guards as soon as the alarm blared. Or maybe he was alerted by the system itself, but either way he'd known something had happened. He'd known to call Geraldine.

"Was it a break-in?" Her voice was steady, and she didn't waver. I was surprised by her steadiness and fumbled for a moment. I'd expected this to go very differently than it was.

"Yes."

"Did they successfully take anything?"

I jutted my jaw and pressed down my shoulders, a subconscious flow of movement showcasing preparation and determination. Forcing myself to steady before I answered.

"Yes," I stated.

Geraldine nodded, but she caught me off-guard again with her next question. It didn't follow the order of questions I thought would've followed. It almost seemed like she skipped one, like she was hoping to avoid it even as it danced on the edges of our frayed conversation. Taunting and threatening like the dark clouds of a summer storm, hovering on the horizon to catch one unaware.

"Are there any leads in recovery?"

"Not that I'm aware of, ma'am. They set it as a crime scene and detectives have been gathering information. They haven't informed me of any updates," I confessed.

"They probably wouldn't, either. Too soon to be updating anyone but me, I'm sure," she reasoned. She was right. The detectives would want to talk to the head of the museum to provide any updates first. I wasn't sure what updates they could possibly have so far, but time was of the essence for them.

It was silent again.

Geraldine hesitated, a knowing dread clear in her eyes, but she asked the question she'd previously avoided. I could tell she already knew the answer; her face became impassive as she prepared. She needed it said aloud, even if the answer already hung invisibly between us.

"What did they take, Ms. Vaycker?" she asked, using cool professionalism as a shield. Her expectant gaze tore holes in my composure and swelled a lump in my throat. I was bombarded by emotions tonight, but I felt pity and sorrow for the proud woman in front of me.

I bit the tip of my tongue before answering. "They took the widow, ma'am."

It was still for a moment, before Geraldine nodded, and tore her attention towards the door. She was still inscrutable, and overwhelming curiosity caused my mouth to open.

"You guessed that already, didn't you?"

Her eyes flickered with something too quick to catch before resuming their stony exterior. Her answer was controlled but held no malice.

"Why else rob a castle?" she asked, holding my gaze. "You wouldn't do a heist without going after the crown." 

No. No, I wouldn't.

First chapters are always... fun.

Fun, fun, fun. So fun. Love them. Not stressful or engagement-defining at all. But I hope you enjoyed, and are curious about Whitehill, Geraldine, and Eleanor Vaycker. I hope you stick around!

I highly encourage (and hope for) comments, suggestions, thoughts, anything and everything. As long as it's nice (aka constructive), I love feedback. I'm here to share and experiment with my writing, and active/vocal readers are amazing for growth and learning.

If you're here from ILAD, I am so grateful for you. When I posted the prologue, I thought I was starting another uphill battle of trying to find readers willing to give a new book a chance. Instead, the prologue got readers almost immediately! It was thrilling and I'm so excited to start this journey with all of you. Eleanor is her own character on her own journey and it's going to be fun finding and sharing her voice. Like I said, this is a place where I'm experimenting and training some writing muscles. If you're not from ILAD, hello, nice to meet you. I'm H. Like a skipper on the Jungle Cruise ride, I'll be guiding you along with some side comments and sarcasm here and there. Welcome!

Look at me, already starting off with a super long authors note on the first chapter. Sorry!

- H