"The Just Judges" (left) by Jan van Eyck or Hubert van Eyck (1430-1432), stolen 1934, one panel returned (right) by thief during ransom demand for the other half, deathbed confession by thief who swore to take the secret location of the missing piece to the grave - value unknown (priceless)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Click. Clack.

My heels struck pavement.

Click. Clack.

My ankles groaned under the strain of balancing, but years of experience held me steady and ignored their hardened pleas.

Click. Clack.

My dress smacked my thighs. Satin fluttered and danced as I pushed myself faster.

Click. Clack.

My group hadn't entered the foyer yet. They loitered outside. I knew why; the girls couldn't bring August inside when he was so determined to keep a watchful eye on my interaction with Simon. So he noticed when I broke away and began to run. August saw when my expression broke into sheer fear, when I slid into a panic that rivaled even the greatest of catastrophes.

"Eleanor, what is it? What's wrong?"

August rushed towards me, the girls hot on his heels. Lena looked confused, her gaze split between looking at me and looking behind me. Carrie's expression was already one of grim preparation; a sister willing to slide into vengeance if I needed it.

"We have to go!" I shouted. "It happened again."

August caught me as I barreled into him. Fear was syrupy in my heart and lungs, throttling me and my words.

"What happened again? Eleanor?"

"The museum!" I choked, already trying to tug August to the car. "I don't, I-I can't, we have to!"

"Breathe. You're going to hyperventilate," Lena pleaded.

"Eleanor, breathe," August ordered. His hands held me steady, forcing me to ground myself as I tried to take flight again. "Take a deep breath and tell us what happened. Was it Simon? Did he do something?"

I rattled air in and sobbed air out. My head was spinning and I couldn't see reason. If I could, I'd know I didn't have enough details; I had no idea the reality at the museum. It could've been a false alarm for all I knew.

But I couldn't see anything other than the blur of hysteria.

I trembled even as August's arms held me still. My fingertips had slipped from the edge, the floodgates had ripped open, and the chasm below had swallowed me in malicious delight. If the security system at the museum was announcing a second hit, then the screech echoing down gilded halls wasn't alarms—it was the tolling of funeral bells. It was the announcing of Whitehill's demise and the declaration of Riverwide's failings. The raised voice of an executioner as he pointed at me. The chant of the masses as they jostled and jeered. The screams of a descent there was no crawling back from. The end of all my endings, and the decay of my barely sprouted beginnings. It meant betrayal.

All I could feel was the incredulous daze of repetition. The injection of denial was attempting to push into my veins, trying to numb the thrashing nerves, but there was no reprieve when the truth was strong—stronger than any walls denial could build to contain it.

"He left," Lena commented with a furrowed brow. "Simon left as soon as we reached you. Why did he leave? What happened?"

"Alarms," I wailed. "Alarms!"

August's eyes widened as pieces of a horrid puzzle clicked together. Even through my panic, through my terrible tremors, enough key words had slithered past. They chained together to form a haphazard explanation. A curse spilled like blood from his lips.

It was a blur after that. There were glimpses of babbled explanations, fearful rushing, and hearts that wouldn't leave our throats as we abandoned the party. Lena and August went in his car, Carrie and I went in mine. The smooth purr of my Porsche became the groan of speeds it'd never felt before. I gunned it, but we trailed on our own. My car was nothing compared to August's. He was never interested in cars, but his father was, and his chariot was similarly a gift; a sleek example of wealth that left Agatha far behind.

We had to go. We had to know. We couldn't wait for fate to be passed from one mouth to another, to tumble down official channels until it reached our ears; we had to know if Whitehill had sustained another loss.

But it was eerily quiet.

There were no cops when Agatha pulled into the parking lot. No spills of investigators. No red and blue. No suffocating throngs like that night. There was only ghoulishly eavesdropping stars and leering shadows.

I could see August's car, Simon's, and others I assumed belonged to the security team slumbering in the lot. I didn't pay those much mind; it was another car that caught my eye. The sight of it shattered what calm I'd gathered in the ride. A sky-blue convertible.

Geraldine's car.

A second theft was never supposed to happen. Nothing else was supposed to be taken. I thought of the most valuable works left on those cursed walls, all we had left to lose. A 19th century examination of the feverish desperation and psychosis of victims of the plague. A 17th century piece of the nymph Amalfi, before she met her doomed lover Heracles, and her youth was siphoned by the beckons of death; my favorite work since I was a child. Landscapes that seemed so untouched, so peaceful, it was hard to believe something similar could exist in the world. Exhibits of 20th century pieces exploring the anger of war, the beauty of colors, and the emotional depths of Expressionism. Detailed Baroque works that could be examined all day, and still have more to find in their masterful lines. Provoking Surrealism. Dreamy Rococo. The soft blurs of Impressionism. Heart aching pieces depicting myths, lives, deaths, celebrations, mourning, romances, history, and everything the human mind could ever fathom in all of our existence.

So much to lose—and the museum was too quiet.

August and Lena were nowhere to be found. I didn't wait for Carrie as I tumbled out the car and barreled to the door. She called for me to wait, or slow down, but I only heard a ringing in my ears.

Loud, loud, loud.

There didn't seem to be a soul to be found. My heels boxed with marble as I tore through back halls until I hit the west wing. Then the main corridor. Then the east wing—and then it was silent.

I'm not sure realizations of a certain caliber can occur all at once. They're too large, too heavy. They come in layers, in waves. If felled by a wave, there was no opportunity to stand back up; they relentlessly pounded on and on. I didn't know which layer washed over me first.

Was it Geraldine? Framed by the mighty pillars of the furthest wall, regal and terrifying like the goddess Athena herself? How she watched, with a cold clarity in her eyes I didn't recognize when she looked at me?

Was it the art? Not a single one missing, all present and exactly as I'd always known it? I knew the building more than I knew my own heart; there were no indicators of loss.

Was it the members of the security team? Each of their expressions were as uniquely carved as Terracotta soldiers, their forms stiffly scattered about the room.

Was it Lena? She was half-turned towards Geraldine, and half-turned away, as another commotion pulled her focus.

Was it August and Simon? Toe to toe, anger to anger, challenge to challenge; the unyielding shield meeting the antagonizing sword.

"What the hell is going on?" Carrie blurted from behind me, breathless from her chase.

Heads snapped towards us, breaking the glass of the moment. Simon nodded towards his team. Some soundlessly slipped away back to their stations, and I swayed where I stood. Prayers still silently clung to my lips like smoke hung in the air. My heart refused to believe the room was untouched.

"Was something stolen?" Carrie asked. "Are the cops on their way?"

"No cops," Simon said calmly. He still hadn't moved away from August, and August hadn't moved at all. There wasn't a flinch to be seen other than my own. "Nothing was taken. It was a false alarm."

"How do you know?" August challenged. "Let's hope something wasn't taken from another wing while all your goons rushed here."

"Some of my team came to the source of the alarm. Others went to the perimeter. Others got out of sight so they can corner and confront if someone got in. Just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they aren't there," Simon said. There was a bite in his words now, an impatience that bordered on condescension. Based on the flare of August's nostrils and the stiffening of his fingers towards his palm, he heard it, too.

August's voice was too loud for these hallowed halls. "This is your job! You were hired to do one thing. Tell me why the alarms went off!"

"A false alarm," Simon repeated.

"Really? The system tripped itself for the first time ever? Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical after losing a priceless painting last time. I warned you of the consequences of another loss. Are you still sticking with technical malfunction, or are you trying to protect incompetence on your team?"

Simon's expression turned as guarded and deadly as August's was irrationally angry. "My team is nothing short of exemplary at their job when not sabotaged from the inside. It was a false alarm."

"Yeah? So what jackass are you accusing of internal sabotage now?"

"I believe," Geraldine's crisp tones rang through the room, "the jackass you're referring to would be me."

Like trees bent from the wind, everyone in the room paused in the wake of a force to be reckoned with. She didn't falter as she stood tall beneath the arching ceiling. Even the mural above us was a live audience; the cherubs and angels were leaned over to scrutinize the scene below them. I wondered how they'd scoff at the hubris of man. I loved this wing, and so did Geraldine. A loss from this exhibit would've killed us.

August stepped back from his perceived foe and closer to his grandmother. "Gramma? What do you mean?"

"I was the one who set off the alarms, Goose. There's nothing to worry about."

"I don't understand. What were you doing here? How did you set them off?"

"Nothing to worry about," Geraldine firmly reiterated. The bold gaze of a businesswoman was turning into the scrutinizing look of a grandmother. If her special nickname for August hadn't soothed him, she'd resort to another approach. "I see you weren't at home yourself, young man."

"The Blue Macaw conservation event was tonight, Mrs. Whitehill," Lena chimed in. "The one hosted by the Glickpers."

"It's 'Geraldine', dear. You know that," Geraldine corrected. Lena nodded with a sheepish apology.

Geraldine took a moment to gaze around the room, taking in each of our party attires. There was a shine in her eyes of a past much wilder than anything we could dream of, memories of nights spent doing much worse than we could ever hope to achieve. "Well, good. I'm only teasing, Goose. You don't party nearly as much as I did at your age. You're too worried about nonsense."

"Like my grandmother sneaking into a museum in the middle of the night?" August muttered.

"A museum I own, may I remind you. I'll go anywhere I damn well please. Or have you forgotten who you're dealing with?" The glare of a grandmother was now rapidly becoming a teasing stink eye. "Don't make me tell your mother about Christmas when you were nine."

August paled. "No, ma'am. Can I drive you home?"

Geraldine shrugged and beckoned him forward. "C'mon, then. And you," she pointed at Simon, "good work. I'm pleased with my choice."

Suddenly, in the artificial glow of a half-illuminated room, I saw something I didn't like. A paleness in the proud matriarch of the Whitehill empire. A falter I didn't recognize. Maybe to an outsider, they wouldn't see anything wrong. Or maybe I was wrong, and it was nothing at all.

It's the lights. She's fine. She's tired. It's only the lights.

Geraldine sniffed, took one last solid look around the room, and looped her arm with her grandson's. She nodded at each of us as she passed—even me. I hardly noticed Carrie hiss a "What did you do when you were nine?" at August, but I caught the shrug he cloaked with the look of a lie. After a hesitant pause, Lena followed them out. She squeezed my arm as she passed with a weak smile.

As fearless as ever, Carrie was the first to speak when the room had almost emptied. "How did she get in?"

Simon still stood in place, his chin tilted towards the lofty ceiling and his hand rubbing the back of his neck. I wondered if he could feel my gaze. If he did, he paid it no mind. His eyes closed for a moment of resettling, accepting a moment of pause before he relaxed into an open posture.

"The usual way I imagine. She wouldn't have been stopped upon entry. Like she said, she owns the place," Simon sighed. More silent directions were guided to the remaining security members, who disappeared like apparitions.

"Then how did the alarms get triggered?"

"After what's happened, I hope you understand why I must refrain from explaining the details of the alarm system and its triggers, ma'am."

"The paintings," I said to my sister. "She touched a painting. Or moved it. Not all of them are fully mounted."

Simon gave me an unreadable look, but I didn't care.

Carrie walked to a wall and stood before a large canvas with her hands on her hips. Her neck craned as she looked around the room. "Anything out of place? Seems strange she'd come to the museum in the middle of the night with no explanation. Old age, maybe? Dementia?"

"Nothing out of place. And I don't know. Geraldine doesn't usually do anything like this."

"Y'know, when I took this job, I didn't think we'd be guarding against the owners, too."

It was a wry remark from Simon, and one I didn't appreciate.

But Carrie did. She turned and looked him up and down before stepping closer and extending her hand. "We haven't officially met. Carrie Vaycker. Little sister, confidante, and resident fun time."

"And pain in my ass," I muttered.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am. Simon Gatz."

"Oh, I know," Carrie practically purred. "It's very nice to meet you, too."

I stepped away. Away from my sister pretending to be someone she wasn't, away from a man I felt a connection with, and away from a room that felt too full. I retreated to the hallways. They were quiet. If I closed my eyes and listened hard enough, I could imagine the echoes of the alarms that'd beaten the walls a little while earlier. But I didn't want to. I wanted to enjoy the silence while it still tolerated me.

It'd been too long.

Too long since I'd walked these halls. Too long since I'd felt my soul align back into place. Too long since I'd felt the embrace of home. The quiet was an opportunity, a chance to revisit the museum when no one was there to goggle or gawk at my return. No one was there to tense if I stepped a little too close to a work, or chase me off with distrustful glares from former coworkers.

It was the freedom of solitude, so I took a deep breath, and I began to walk.

The air was different in museums. Heavier. More sacred. Weighted with particles of flaking paint from centuries long ago, swirled through rays of color from stained glass, and precious with the quiet air of solemnity that haunted all libraries, museums, and historical sites. I felt it in my lungs as I prowled. I roamed until I found security members, who viewed me with surprise and hesitation but never stopped me. I traipsed until I gazed upon pigeons and parrots, heroes and nymphs, oil and tempera.

Until I came to the last room. The room was marvelous and wide, as if an entire gallery had been transplanted into a banquet hall. It held a large exhibit that'd once housed Whitehill's showstopper. Once, before everything had changed, before I'd stood among unforgiving trails of glass, it'd held a beauty that'd transcended.

That wall was still empty. Although, it wasn't quite as vacant as before; an empty frame had been put up, an exact replica of the one that'd formerly encased a grieving widow. Below the polished wood was a plaque to explain the lack of canvas and beauty. It wasn't a temporary sign. My heart was left to throb for the expected permanency.

The wall was empty where it mattered.

Our widow had been beautiful. A lamenting siren, drawing you in with calls you felt echoing in your soul. But it was never songs of hope, never promises of love, it was wails of grief. The bone chilling sobs of a woman forced to bear her despair on bent shoulders and dipped brows. The stamp of loss had been so pressed into her soulful flesh she'd worn it as a scar. And yet, the widow had looked proud even in her anguish. I didn't know how the artist had captured that so skillfully. I didn't think something like that could be captured from a model alone, or pulled from the depths of imagination. There were some aching truths only possible to visualize after they've been felt.

I think it took a widow to know what it meant to be one.

"Jesus! Being exiled for one theft wasn't enough, you're out searching for another one?"

"Sorry," I hollowly responded to my sister. I didn't turn at her loudness, stuck in an awful trance by an empty wall and a broken heart. "I just needed to see everything again."

I felt the small hand of my sister find mine; an echo of childhood that compounded the melancholy I felt.

"I miss her, too," Carrie whispered softly.

The absence was felt. The absence would always be felt. She was there, and then she wasn't. Whitehill had a widow, and then it didn't. Not like before. Not like it ever would again.

Carrie squeezed my hand. "Are you ready to go, El?"

"I don't want to. Not yet. Just give me another minute."

Carrie glanced over her shoulder at the shadow I hadn't realized had followed her. I didn't know why it surprised me anymore.

"Simon, can she stay?"

He stepped out of the shadows, cocking his head. "Of course."

"When she says another minute, she never means just one," Carrie informed with a sigh. "How long can she stay?"

Carrie was talking about me like I didn't exist in the moment next to her. Like I was a shell right then, my soul having flitted to another plane. She was right. But I could see Simon step closer. Even in my haze of reverence, I could feel him. And I felt him join my other side, so close his fingers threatened to brush mine.

"How much time do you need?" Simon asked quietly; in a tone so gentle it was the hushed tones of church.

I didn't answer, but I met his eyes. That was answer enough when he took a moment to search them. He looked over my head at my uncharacteristically quiet sister. "I can take her home if she needs it. When she's ready."

Carrie hesitated, but I squeezed her fingers back. My sister eventually relented and disappeared into the night. Of course, not before some thinly veiled warning looks at Simon, some silent reassurances from me, and a promise to call in the morning to make sure I was okay. But she left. She left because she knew me.

The night had taken a strange turn. My social experiment had expired before it'd started, and I'd ended up back in the one place I'd never expected. All roads lead back to Whitehill. I'd always known it, but I felt it right then in powerful promises of confirmation.

Yet again, I stood next to Simon before a wall of art. This time, we stood before a wall I'd previously stood before alone; a wall that'd lost its beating heart.

The art at the beginning of the chapter is actually two panels from the Ghent Altarpiece, a polyptych made up of twelve panels. The polyptych has a very long history and has been the victim of several thefts, crimes, and wars. Pawned by diocese, bought by a King, looted in WWI, returned by the Treaty of Versaille, and so much more. Through all of it, it somehow came back together relatively unharmed. Then, in April 1934, two panels were taken. "The Just Judges" and "Saint John the Baptist" were stolen in the night. The thief demanded ransom and returned "Saint John the Baptist" as an act of good faith. Negotiations stalled, the government argued with the thief, and despite exchanging at least eleven letters, the panel was never found or returned. Then seven months later, Arsène Goedertier revealed on his deathbed to his lawyer he was the thief and provided carbon copies of the ransom letters. Goedertier said he'd hidden the panel, and promised to take the location to the grave. Along with the carbon copies, the lawyer found an unsent note that said: "[it] rests in a place where neither I, nor anybody else, can take it away without arousing the attention of the public".

And so we search for a missing panel, a missing piece of history, even today. Even now, a Ghent police detective remains assigned to the case almost one hundred years later.

- H