"A Cavalier" by Franz van Mieris (1657), stolen in 2007 from a prominent gallery during visiting hours - value $1 million

Chapter Twelve

"Agent Gallick."

My feet moved on their own accord, scurrying over to stand by my sister. Carrie was fully shrunken into the edge of the door by then, her hand still clinging to the knob with alarmingly admirable strength.

Agent Gallick's eyes stayed steadily trained on mine as she replied amiably, "Please, call me 'Catarina'."

She had a wide smile and an air of patience, which hastened the realization she'd already said that to me, the very first time we'd met. I would've flushed with embarrassment if the blood hadn't already drained out of my face, or if my current circumstances didn't make any mortification tepid and weak.

Catarina seemed contrastingly relaxed. Her badge was still on her hip in shiny authority, half covered by the FBI jacket she wore. Even in her casual stance, her spine was straight and tall. She captured notice; she demanded respect, and there was no doubt it was given. I really did admire her. I couldn't say I liked her, but I was knowledgeable enough to know admirability and likeability either intertwined together or stood on opposing sides of a thin, thin line.

I nodded. "Right, 'Catarina'. My apologies."

Despite the initial instinct to step aside and invite her in, to extend the customary grace and courtesy given to one on a doorstep, a lurking urge warned me not to. Don't let them in, it said. Just wait.

Because this isn't what I expected.

It wasn't necessarily the happenings outside my door, but rather the lack of happenings. The FBI was here, and I doubted it was for anything good, but the scene wasn't what I'd expect from a house-call. The agent's sturdily planted stances and polite knocks didn't fit the aggressive, intruding behavior seen on television. It was dignified and ominous in its calm. Too steady and straightforward, like the tugging wait before a tsunami barreled onward. It mimicked comfort and false security; a camouflage to disguise the net under my feet, or bait beyond the pressure switch of a mouse trap.

Maybe it was supposed to be reassuring or respectful. It wasn't. Regardless of the withheld pace of their intrusion, or maybe because of it, the situation was deeply unnerving. It didn't take broken doors or shouted warnings to startle me. In fact, I felt like I'd be sick all over Carrie's Stuart Weitzman boots, or lose the bottom of my stomach altogether as I looked at the agents before me.

"How, uh," I cleared my throat before continuing, "how can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt your afternoon, Eleanor, but we're here about the painting."

"Ah."

She seemed to wait for me to say more, but that was all I had; I was fresh out of greetings and remarks. I remained stiffly in the doorway, eyes and limbs locked—waiting. I was good at waiting. If only others knew how good I was at playing the long game.

Carrie, however, shuffled beside me.

From the corner of my eye, I could see she'd gone pale, wide eyes darting between me and Catarina. The bold side of my sister had shriveled under the weight of the acronym on their jackets; her non-existent patience had been beat down and discarded by her nervous energy.

I suddenly realized I was still clutching the travel mug in unfeeling fingers. I hastily put it down on the entryway table. Coffee was long forgotten. Everything was forgotten, including any sense of normalcy or collected composure I'd once had. So, my hands awkwardly fluttered for a moment, unsure where to go, before I let them fall limply to my side. I was a paper doll someone had left a little askew while playing and hadn't yet bothered to fix. Silence was bearing down on me, on my apartment, on my life in a suffocating grip I couldn't shake.

"Judge Farvon signed a warrant this morning," she finally said. "We'll be searching the apartment."

That damn smile of hers was too wide. Too veiled. Carrie's hand tightened further at the agent's words. If her grip got a little firmer, I was sure my doorknob would break off altogether, crumpling into a brassy bookend. Yes, a stress ball was quickly earning the top spot on my sister's Christmas gift list. But at least the uncomfortable silence was broken, and the wait was over.

"What's the probable cause behind the warrant?" I asked.

"From 1:13 to 1:25 AM the night of the theft, your whereabouts are unknown and unverified."

"I was in my office."

"Yes, you were. From 1:26 AM onward. There are twelve minutes and some change unaccounted for."

"And the accusation? You think I stole the painting alone in 'twelve minutes and some change'?" I challenged, disbelief and bewilderment dripping off the words I flung.

Catarina only reached her hand towards her back, where another agent supplied a pile of papers. She promptly held them out to me.

I stalled, waiting for her to respond, but her next words didn't answer my question.

"You'll find everything in here. It's all in order. The warrant specifies what we can retrieve."

I hesitantly accepted it. I knew my options were limited. And in a strange way, I was almost insulted by it all. I couldn't tell why. Was it the accusation? The audacity? The absurdity? Or perhaps, just maybe, I was secretly flattered. Pleased she thought I had the skill to get to the exhibit, steal a painting all alone, and return to my office in only twelve minutes. That she'd stood confidently before a judge, boldly advocating it was possible I had the capability to smuggle it to my apartment, though Whitehill had swarmed with cops that night.

But I wasn't sure what I felt. I wasn't confident about much lately. So, whatever my feelings were, they remained unidentified as they twisted and surged.

"There's nothing to hide here," I flatly informed, glancing down at the papers. "But I'll still be contacting a lawyer."

I wouldn't tell her my family had already done that, or that more law firms had been brought in by my parents as soon as they'd heard the initial news. Carrie had informed me of that fact. With my family, it'd be known I had access to lawyers, but Agent Catarina Gallick was welcome to think I hadn't yet pursued them for this particular issue.

My parents had, but I hadn't.

She was welcome to think I personally hadn't seen the need to yet, that it hadn't even crossed my mind the FBI would find any merit in online claims of guilt. That it seemed so far-fetched to me that a large, federal organization could be swayed by anonymous mumbles online; by voiceless commentary from strangers who weren't there, weren't part of the investigation, and had nothing to do with anything related to the case. And yet, they'd apparently held enough influence over the Federal Bureau of Investigation for them to accuse me of the improbable. I would bet most of the faceless commenters had never even heard of Whitehill before.

Catarina was welcome to think I had a different, more trusting sense of faith in our justice system than others. She was also welcome to believe that sense of faith was now being questioned in the most bizarrely, perplexing way.

She's welcome to think a lot of things.

Her smile was back. I hated that smile; it was too sharp and too knowing in its existence. It was the smile of someone who knew how many eggs were in another's basket before they thought to count them themselves. The grin of a bobcat, the vicious smirk of a hyena, and the beam of a cheshire cat.

"I would expect nothing less, Eleanor."

I no longer wanted to call her 'Catarina'. Hell, I wanted to revoke the first name basis entirely. Using it suggested she was my friend, and she was not my friend. She would be Agent Gallick, or just Gallick, from then on. I'd give my respect, but not my familiarity.

But I did something, then. I stepped back, and I allowed them in.

I quietly looked down once more at the papers clasped in my hands. It was legal jargon, mostly readable when focused on but exhaustingly heavy to decipher. Especially as my brain filled with increasingly loud white noise. A numb coldness as icily powerful as winter's touch was spreading from my extremities onward. I knew I was at a road blockade; I would have to be searched by authorities who hunted with relentless conviction before I could get any further down my own path. There was no room to turn around. There was no choice.

Drive forward, or they will make you.

Agents filed in, a handful of serious-faced men and women with badges and FBI jackets identical to Gallick's. They moved methodically. From their gloves to their attention to detail, it only caused more cavernous unease. Gallick stepped past the threshold alongside her team, fully inside my apartment then, and stood directly before me. In fact, she seemed to be silently examining me. It was extremely subtle, to the point I wondered if it was all in my head, but the feeling in my gut told me it was another evaluation. And this time, it wasn't in the crime-scene taped environment of Whitehill; it was in the comforts, or previous comforts, of my own home. Was she waiting for me to fall apart? To become hysterical, to convict myself with a sharp tongue and irrationally unreachable tailspin?

I won't. I will look at this warrant, at this piece of paper used to search for a piece of canvas, until it makes sense. What will we lose in this search?

"You must be Caroline."

I quickly looked up then, noticing Gallick's attention had shifted to my younger sister. Carrie still hadn't moved. She was watching the agents in my apartment with a blankness cratered by pelting reality, but at her name her eyes snapped to Gallick's.

"How did you—?"

"We've done our research. It's nice to meet you, Ms. Vaycker. I'm Agent Catarina Gallick."

Gallick smoothly extended her hand. For a moment, Carrie was still stuck. But her eyes nervously found mine, saw my hidden nod, and she relaxed. She slipped a little bit back into her usual self as she shook Gallick's hand, immediately returning the strong grip she was met with.

"I would like to say the same, Agent," Carrie started, "but you're currently investigating my sister for grand theft."

There she is.

"Protective," Gallick acknowledged approvingly. "I respect that."

She stepped back, peacefully tucking her hands into her jacket. "As for the investigation, at this point it's more about ruling suspects out. The less people we have on our list, the less we have left to investigate, and the higher chance we find who's to blame. We're looking to clear names, not just single them out."

"So, you don't think Eleanor did it?" Carrie asked doubtfully, eyeing the agents that poked and prodded my things with careful precision. No time or effort was being spared, no corner left untucked in their investigation. I wasn't obsessed with perfect organization, or preferential placement, but seeing my stuff moved, touched, and discarded was a lot to take in. These were complete strangers; they didn't care if things were a little bit off or altogether misplaced when moving on to the next part of their search.

"Well, Ms. Vaycker, I think your sister was there when that grand theft you mentioned occurred." Gallick's shoulders lifted in what could almost be described as a shrug—but not quite. "And 1:00 AM is an extremely late time to still be at work. I also think Eleanor has no way of proving where she was for those twelve minutes. This is a necessary evil, but if there's nothing to hide here at her apartment, then there's no need to worry we'll find anything."

Carrie opened her mouth to respond, but I raised a hand to stop her. "Like I said, Agent, there's nothing here. You're welcome to look all you like."

I said the words strongly, confident nothing in the apartment would land me in handcuffs, but inside I wanted to shrivel and fade. On the outside, I stepped out of the way and gestured Gallick onward. Inside, I was a very small pea of a woman.

On the inside, I was also dying to call my parents.

What a sudden switch from the fear before, a flip of epic proportions. But right then, all I wanted was their protection. Of course, I knew how that sounded, how it felt. Because it went against everything I'd said, everything I thought I believed in, and everything I'd promised to despise. It went against the guilt I had and the claims of independence. It sounded bad in the perspective I'd painted.

But suddenly I was a small girl getting in trouble in the outside world, who needed to run home to a parent's arms and hear we all made mistakes. That it didn't define me as a person, and I could try again tomorrow. It wasn't just that I wanted my parent's financial or influential protection. Not entirely, at least, and that helped soothe the churning uncertainty from my potential hypocrisy.

I just wanted my mom and dad to tell me it'd be okay. I just wanted my parents.

"We'll need your phone, laptop, and any other devices registered to you. As well as any files or work-related items you have from the museum. I know how easy it can be to take work home at the end of the day."

Was that supposed to be sympathetic?

Was it supposed to be Gallick acknowledging she related to me, and therefore believed she understood me? I didn't know. I shoved down the snippy response that viciously pleaded to come out, and watched silently as Gallick stepped further into my living space. She took slow steps away from me, around her busy team, as her careful eyes took in my apartment.

Unlike her coworkers, she didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. That was their job; her job was to put the puzzle of Eleanor Vaycker together. To determine if 'art thief' was one of my jagged pieces, and if 'wanted criminal' would soon join the pile.

Her eyes soon snagged on the large centerpiece hung above my couch. Most of the wall decor in my apartment were pictures or souvenirs from my travels, but that piece was one of the few painted works I had up. Among the striking blues of photographs showing my time in Capri, a framed antique map, and golden pieces from various places across Asia, the large piece that graced my living room wall was the showstopper. It was a painting of beauty, and a painting I cherished.

It was a painting of poppies.

Poppies as vibrant as I hoped to be one day; poppies in blistering, orange-bleeding red. One of the few shades of red I liked, and the only shade of orange I could appreciate. I liked all colors, but we all had our least favored hues.

Although, the painting wasn't all poppies. It was much more than that. But poppies were all I'd be able to give proper due in my descriptions, so it's all I could say. Art couldn't be fully described in simple words or short sentences; no one could convey their full depth through stating only what is depicted. No one could predict what personalized experience it'd invoke in another, and I couldn't hope to try. But I could say it had poppies, and for me, it had meaning in its vitality.

"Beautiful piece," Gallick commented. She stepped closer, leaning in.

"Yes, it is."

She glanced back, a hint of surprise apparent from my short response.

What does she expect? A cup of coffee and a cookie? Get out of my apartment.

An agent took that moment to walk by, my laptop in hand. Another agent stepped forward, his hand outreached for my phone and an expectant look on his face. The device was burning a hole in my back pocket as it awaited its retrieval.

"This is ridiculous," Carrie muttered.

I nodded in agreement. "Yes. Yes, it is."

But I relented, and handed it over. The time flashed across my screen as I did.

"Shit, Carrie, your test!"

Carrie swore, her hand flying up to her head as she remembered she was needed elsewhere. She looked at me with frantic eyes, but apparently her humor hadn't been pushed out in the panic.

"Damn it! Do you think a sibling being investigated for grand theft counts as an excused absence?"

"Go, Carrie!"

Carrie hurriedly grabbed her bag from beside my couch, shoved on her shoes with fumbling impatience, and headed to the door. She looked up at the FBI agent who stood watching us with amusement. "You don't happen to write excuse notes, do you?"

I shoved her out the door, even as Gallick cracked a different kind of smile at Carrie's question.

"Good luck!" I shouted after Carrie. I watched her abandon hope of taking the elevator altogether and fly towards the stairs instead. Right before her head completely disappeared to the floor below, Carrie turned, and gave me her own tiny nod. I mustered what I could and returned it, and my sister vanished to wage battles of molecules and chemical bonds.

I had a different battle to fight. So I turned back around, holding up the legal papers.

"Now, where were we?"

"I buried myself in the words, dug into every root and examined their beginnings and ends, until I finally looked up and saw my surroundings. Until I looked around, and realized how muddied I had become in my excavation. It was time to let somethings rest — at least for a little while. To let go, and trust it will be okay."

To trust that it's a first draft. And it will be okay.

- H

P. S. I celebrate American Thanksgiving, and I want to say what I'm thankful for. I'm thankful for you, for words, and for first drafts. For the readers that stepped into Whitehill with me, and the readers that accompanied me in getaway cars with dogs named Rolo. For pages of words I find myself buried in, for better or worse.