To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Four: Security and Scandal

"The Storm On The Sea of Galilea" by Rembrandt van Rijn (1633), stolen 1990 - value $140 million

Chapter Four

The questioning was long. When Catarina was finally satisfied, at least for the time being, she left to question others like a bloodhound catching a scent.

I was thrilled for the break.

August returned shortly after she left, bearing coffee like he'd done only twelve hours before. He knew my coffee orders: chai lattes in the colder months, iced macchiatos in the warmer months. August had known me since I was fourteen and he was sixteen, and we'd reveled in the sanctuary of coffee breaks together more times than I could count. We'd escape to the holy grounds of coffee shops when we needed to get away, seeking refuge when it was all too much.

He informed me his parents were on their way before handing me the holy grail—an oversized chai latte.

"Thank you," I said gratefully. I welcomed the warm spice after Catarina's questioning; her detailed investigation had opened a dam of chills to my soul. Catarina was polite, but it was what seemed to be thinly veiled underneath the politeness that unnerved me.

With a sip and a jolt, I realized August was looking carefully at me over the rim of his own cup, scrutinizing me for any quivers after my time with Catarina.

"You look like it didn't go well. Was it that bad?"

I feebly shrugged, looking away. The only thing I said in return was the only thing I could scramble for. "This whole thing is bad." 

August paused, slumping slightly and denting the warmth my spiced tea had fought to return.

"Yeah, it is," he murmured quietly.

He looked exhausted, and it felt just like it had in my office right after everything happened. Both of us clung to oversized coffees, this time from a real shop instead of an employee lounge, and both of us tired beyond what a night of rest could heal. We had a long journey ahead of us. It hadn't gotten any shorter in the past few hours.

"How are you?" I nudged.

August had been tipping his cup back when I spoke, and he took a long drink before answering.

"Fine." He ran a hand through his hair, catching it on hidden tangles between loose curls.

With my own careful analysis, I only hummed in response, not believing him. August had taken care of everyone around him his entire life, and that hadn't changed. Right then, he was focused on the museum, his family, and finding a way to support everyone through the chaos. I knew he'd let the stress push him into the ground if he wasn't careful. While I'd help him avoid it, my actions would happen behind the scenes as usual. That was us; we supported each other in the whirlwinds and the hurricanes. Right then, we happened to be in a tornado.

"I should go. My parents will be here any minute and they'll want to head straight to the board meeting." August cracked his neck and shuffled towards the door. He turned with a sour expression and a pointed finger. "Don't let the dick ask you anything while I'm gone."

I grinned. "Who, detective grouch? I can handle him."

"I know you can. Doesn't mean he's not a dick," August muttered back.

"Did you two know each other? Before today, I mean."

I watched August shift on his feet as a dark look crossed his brow. His word choice felt careful, even purposefully deliberate with his pauses and intonations. "I knew of him, but I'd never met him before. His reputation precedes him, about both his skill and his personality—apparently, it's all true."