"Ludovic Lepic et ses filles" (Ludovic Lepic and His Daughters) by Edgar Degas (c. 1871), stolen 2008, recovered 2012 with slight damage - value unknown

Chapter Twenty-Five

I did something different. Something desperate, and irrational, maybe. Something I didn't usually do. Because usually, I let him go, chasing him off and never calling him back.

This time, I asked him something. Something that probably convinced him I wasn't truthful about my intake of drinks.

The words tumbled out, half swallowed by the glass I raised to my lips. "Do you think there's a plan? Like we're shown things so we can make the right decisions?"

Regret pointed at my stupidity and chortled like children at exposed knickers. I could've smacked myself in the face. What the hell was I talking about? I sounded like I'd done more than just drink.

I silently waited for the throat-punch of humiliation that'd come at the sound of his ridicule... but it didn't come. No, there wasn't an answer as soon as I would've liked. I looked up when he didn't immediately laugh, or question my sobriety again.

Simon had paused, half enveloped in the shadows he would eventually disappear in.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"The universe," I replied, feeling too committed to rewind. "Do you think it finds ways to talk to us? To tell us which way to go?"

Simon turned, eying my perch on the stool and the statuesque forms of my friends. His eyes then swept around the bar, towards the few stragglers who'd stumbled in and the weary stance of the bartender. Then he shrugged and moved to sit beside me. Once again, he had a million reasons to leave, but somehow, he found one to stay.

"As in messages? I don't know. I believe in coincidences. By scientific law, the universe seeks chaos. Random assortment of events would give that."

"So would careful coordination of chaos-causing events," I reminded. "Maybe there's a plan."

"True, but that's a lot of consciousness to place on a big bang. You know, if that's your fourth drink, you're doing pretty good at tongue twisters."

His elbow gently bumped me as he settled further on the stool. For some reason, I was strangely aware of every spot that touched him, just like at the Ponting Gallery. I needed to admit it. I had a growing attraction to him, and it was terrible. It was the last thing I needed—and the last thing I wanted to give him.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Lena pulling a reluctant August further down the bar. The bartender was split-eyed, probably trying to decide which group to cater to; weighing which of us would provide the highest pay-out at the end of the night. Seeing the same cuff links I'd tugged on earlier, he made his choice.

A weak laugh stumbled its way out of my lips. I dampened them with another sip of my drink. "You're an enigma, Simon Gatz."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You take this job—which no offense, but I'm surprised was offered to you at all—and you pour all of your energy into it. You take on the mantle of CEO when your predecessor screwed everything up. Then you stay. Every time, you stay. Do you like sinking ships?"

"Do you think Whitehill is a sinking ship?" Simon asked.

I think I am.

"I think it takes time to stop a flood with a bucket."

Simon flagged the bartender. "Greystone was a sinking ship, I'll admit that. That's why it became Riverwide."

I snorted. "A new coat of paint doesn't cover the cracks in the hull. Even the names are similar."

"Y'know, the night we came up with the new name was actually a lot like this one."

"Yeah? Seedy dive bar close to the beach? Your life in ruins?"

The bartender apparently liked Simon more than me or August. Like recognizing like? I didn't know, but he heeded his beckoning and replenished my drink before granting Simon his own.

As I gripped another glass, I realized something incredibly profound for my befuddled state. For as many versions of Simon as I had seen so far, I'd given him just as many of my own. The professional, the damsel, the renegade, the angry and tipsy ghost. The philosopher who didn't always see it as a balance of good and bad, but a scale of suspicion and faith.

"Sort of. We were at a bar, coming up with names for the rebranding," Simon began. "The company was shredded, really on the brink of just dissolving altogether, but... I guess we wanted to try. There were people depending on us. And, well, the first step seemed like a new name. I suggested 'Silver Rock', but the others thought that was too on the nose. Anyway, Silver Rock made me think of a river. Rocks are found at rivers. Somehow, I got to 'Riverwide'."

"Why not 'Riverside'? If you wanted the whole stone-rock thing? You know, rocks at the side of a river?"

Simon shrugged with a smile. "Typos happen to the best of us."

"You're joking."

"Maybe. Hard to tell, I guess, from one enigma to the other."

"Me? An enigma? I thought you had me all figured out, Mr. Gatz." I raised my glass, and tipped it towards him. "You think I did it."

The air tightened at my words. It wasn't the movies, and the bar didn't freeze, but I did. I hadn't meant for it to slip out, but perhaps I was more inebriated than I thought. And I really didn't know why it mattered so much to me what his answer would be.

Simon stared down at his own glass gripped in his hands. "I think I know what it's like."

"To be accused of grand theft in front of the entire world?"

"To have all eyes on you after everything fell apart," he admitted. "To realize you can't trust the people you thought you could. To wonder how far betrayal can go."

Far. Really, really far.

"So that's why you're so nice to me? Why you're still here? Why you keep staying?"

I was a familiar wound to him, a beaten soldier he recognized himself in. It had to be.

"I try to be nice on a general basis," Simon informed with another smile.

"You know what I mean. You were willing to listen to me about art and Swigfreid. Other people wouldn't have trusted a word I said after what happened, especially about anything to do with art. You even went out with me. And you're always just showing up. It's like you're following me at this point."

"Like I said, I know what it's like. And, again, you're quite the enigma yourself, Ms. Vaycker. You don't make sense."

He watched me from over the rim of his glass, and I gave a smile. He wasn't planning on elaborating.

It was my turn to confuse. "No, Simon. I don't."

"I like mysteries," he reasoned politely. "But I don't like not finding answers eventually."

"Get used to it, Gatz. You've jumped on a sinking ship. It's so deep in the mud that it's lost its anchor in its own mystery."

I was a shitty person. But for the night, I'd enjoy it. Maybe even the next day. And the next. It was my villain story, wasn't it? Then again, I'd said the same thing at our dinner and chickened out, as if the weight of the villainous cape was too heavy. Like I'd been given shoes I'd decided to fill, but was having a hard time walking a mile in them. The stark contrast of who I was and who I was forcing myself to be was growing more pronounced by the day. But I would keep trying. That's all anyone could ever do.

"I find it odd you just keep showing up," I said slowly. "And I don't know if it's the universe, or chaos, or whatever... but I'm glad you're here. I like having answers, too."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else."

That's too damn smooth of you, Simon. Too irrationally smooth.

"Speaking of Whitehill's mystery, I did some more research on the Widow," Simon started. I downed my drink as he continued. I could feel the buzz in my fingertips, the brightening of the lights and the muffling of the karaoke bar. It still wasn't enough for the topic. "The artist, Wille Le'Garrigue. There's not a lot known about him."

"Depends who you ask."

Simon swirled his empty cup on the scratched bar counter, twirling on its glass edge. "What if I asked you?"

I didn't know Simon that well. Hardly at all, actually. I had to be careful.

"Well, I'd tell you I'm drunker than I thought. And I'm going to the beach."

I hopped off the stool as Simon's head whipped towards me in alarm. He pushed up from his seat and followed as I meandered down to my friends.

"I'm going to the beach. It's only a few blocks from here," I announced, reaching into my bra. I'd stuffed some bills under the cotton and lace. My purse was in Agatha's trunk; I hated carrying bags around, and Lena had enough designer products for the both of us.

"I'll pay," August promptly offered at the sight, reaching into his pockets.

"No need. Drinks on my parents tonight." The creased bills were shoved onto the counter towards the put-out bartender. I'd cut the night short, and therefore his tips. "Anyone coming to the beach with me?"

"You can't go by yourself," Lena replied. "August and I were just going to see if you were ready to go home."

"Well, I'm not."

"It's winter. It'll be freezing."

"It's fall, and it's southern California," I deadpanned.

"I should be going," Simon said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your night out."

"You didn't! I invited you. You deserve some fun, too," Lena reassured. "Not that tonight has been any, I guess. Sorry, we're usually a really fun group."

August wrapped his arm around her shoulders. His gaze was solid and unyielding as he looked Simon up and down.

"Let him go, Lena. I'm sure he has to get back to work."

Even a few drinks in, I could see the challenge August was fronting in words unsaid. I didn't understand it, but I could see it. It reminded me of August's hostility towards someone else. Except in this case, Simon didn't take the bait like Detective Graves had.

"Right," Simon said easily. His graceful smile eased the awkwardness of potential confrontation. "Have a good night."

He turned and almost made it to the door when I did it again.

"Simon?"

His haunting gaze met mine over his shoulder as he waited.

"Do you want to come with us tomorrow? To an event? A party."

Behind me, I could hear it, even if it was soundless. August's indignation, Lena's excitement, the bartender's judgement. They didn't have to make a sound for me to hear it, just like Simon didn't have to move an inch for me to see the battle he waged inside. I wondered if it was similar to the one I felt with him. The clash of reason and the pull of attraction, the reasons to say no and the excuses to say yes; the better judgement that exchanged blows with nonsensical decisions. I'd lost that battle many times over when it came to him.

I was pleased then, and flattered, when Simon lost that battle, too. "Text me the details. I'll see you later, Eleanor."

Then, Simon Gatz was gone. I hoped it wouldn't be for long. He kept showing up, but maybe I couldn't say I was really upset about it. Suspicious, yes. Paranoid, yes. Thrilled? It'd be another secret I took with me.

I let the moment linger, a tantalizing whisper of what could be mine, before turning back. "I was serious about the beach."

"I was afraid of that," August sighed, shaking his head. "Why did you invite him? As security?"

"Uh..."

Lena laughed. She held nothing back. "You're all talk, El. You fight me and Carrie, but you're a hopeless romantic, too. You just won't admit it."

"You're drunk, Lena."

"So are you," August pointed out. "Which is why I don't think the beach is a good idea."

"Fine. We'll just stay here then. I'm not ready to go home yet."

They reluctantly agreed. I led them to a small booth in the back, tucked behind the stained pool tables and a comfortable distance from the door. I didn't love the seating arrangement we ended with; across from August and Lena, I felt like a child out with her parents.

The bartender was thrilled we were staying, though, having realized how generous of a tipper I was. The drinks kept coming, although August declined to further join in as our self-designated driver. Luckily, his sobriety didn't stop him from being part of the fun. We were boisterous, probably borderline a nuisance, but the dirty looks didn't bother us. We laughed. We whispered about Lena's costars, squawked with glee over absurd social happenings, and ridiculed Carrie's choice of a partner. We laughed until Lena's eyes became squinted and tired, and she eventually became curled around August's arm, asleep against his shoulder.

August and I talked quietly after that. Small things filled our conversations, irrelevant topics we knew to be so but couldn't quite bring ourselves to care. The final drink of the night was cradled in my cold fingers. It was a dizzying contrast to the heat I felt in my head and chest.

A moment of silence lulled as I people-watched the strange characters that emerged at this time of night. When I finally looked away from a bulky man animatedly explaining why he'd chosen the color of his cat's collar to another patron, I looked at my friends.

Lena was fully asleep, and she was one of those annoyingly cute sleepers. Sometimes I hated my friends. Their lives weren't easy, but some things weren't fair. Genetically blessed, widely liked, always said the right thing. How could that be fair? Had I done something wrong in another life? I never believed in fate, but I believed some people shined brighter than others. I was trying my best to shine, to be in the spotlight, to feel validation in a form I didn't know I needed, but I wasn't that kind of person. Lena was.

August was, too. He thought I didn't notice. Didn't notice the way his thumb slid gently back and forth on Lena's arm as he held her close to him again. Didn't notice the way he looked at her, or how every exhale from her lips, and every moment she stirred, was caught by his watchful eyes.

"You should tell her," I murmured. August barely caught himself from startling and disturbing Lena. His expression was thrown off as he tried to settle again.

"What?"

I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I knew he knew what I meant. I could see it in that uneasy smile, his free hand ruffling wild golden curls, and the flicker of his eyes towards Lena.

"You ready to go home?"

I shook my head. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Andrew Graves."

August was never good at a poker face. It was the one skill he hadn't mastered yet, but one he'd need when he took over the Whitehill empire. I could see the guilt scrawled across his face. The anger, the regret, the uncertainty. "What about him?"

"Did you know him before the theft?"

"No. Like I said, I knew of him."

I could've believed him, if he hadn't shifted in his seat. If his eyes hadn't darted. If the mark of withheld truths wasn't branded across him.

"You're not telling me everything," I realized. "Is it... do you not trust me?"

August looked stricken. "Of course I do!"

"You don't think I can keep a secret?"

"Eleanor—"

"You don't think I—"

"Stop!" August interrupted. He reached forward and pried a hand off my glass, holding it in his own. "Of course I trust you. I've been by your side since the beginning. Don't fall down that rabbit hole. Not now. Not ever."

I clenched his hand in mine, like it was a lifeline I couldn't believe he'd thrown. My intoxication was warping my perspective. "How do you always know what to say? How are you such a good person, August?"

"I'm not," he mumbled.

"You are."

"I... okay, look, you're right. I didn't tell you everything," he said with a weak smile. "Hell, I don't know why I even try to hide things from you. You always seem to know."

I half-expected August to offer his wrists for cuffs when he bitterly chuckled and shook his head. August wasn't one to find himself cornered, but I also wasn't one to get tipsy in a seedy dive bar. Our conversation was still pointedly kept quiet, hushed so as to not wake Lena or be available for spying ears.

"August, what's going on?"

"I didn't lie, but I didn't tell you everything," August sighed. "I never met Graves before the theft, but I did know about him. He has a reputation; that part was true. But I... I knew about that reputation for a reason."

"Why?"

The coastal glitters of Amalfi waters held the same depths of beauty as August's eyes. I had always been jealous of those shades of blue. But I wasn't jealous of the wary truths that burdened their depths when they met mine in guilty conscience.

"El, how much did you know about stolen art before the Widow was taken?"

Oh, August.

Sorry for the wait, but hopefully posting two chapters makes up for it! I haven't a clue how I feel about these. As is the struggle of writing, it seems! If I keep editing and questioning every word, my head will explode. So here you go. Bon appétit.

- H