To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twelve: Won't You Smile?

"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.