To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty-Four: Manipulative November

"The Painter on the Road to Tarascon" by Vincent van Gogh (1888), believed to be destroyed by a Nazi air raid during World War II, some believe stolen by Nazi officers for private collections - value unknown

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lena wasn't wrong. There were a million things wrong with me. But at least there were a few things going right around me.

Carrie had done her job very well; rumors were swirling. When Diane's interview dropped the next morning, it'd fan the rising flames and reinvigorate the media's flurry. Uncertainty had been planted, seeds of doubt had been sown, and dubiety had been dug among the public. Lord, was I ready to reap. Interviews, social media posts, pictures—they'd wear down the public's defenses until I was where I wanted to be. I was doing it all, slowly but surely.

Of course, some negatives still flitted around my head like flies I couldn't swat. I'd heard from my lawyers Agent Gallick was still worming her away around my life, a parasite looking to further her career at the expense of mine. But she could dig and twist as much as she liked; she was running out of time. The lack of concrete evidence was vexing the FBI. There was nothing the government hated more than to be shown up where the world could presently see it.

Unfortunately, my lawyers had pointed out other unwelcome truths, so I knew there was one card the government still clung to. I just had to wait for them to play it. They would, eventually. One way or another.

I was grateful the museum wasn't being trampled under Gallick's heels in the investigative process. Whitehill was continuing to see a hastened recovery, although I knew it was slightly marred by the news of my suspension. I'd done something right; the public was suddenly in uproar over my 'unjust removal'. Though at some point, it was only the bottom line that mattered. In that regard, the museum was financially seeing progress, even if its public image wasn't quite keeping the same pace. The fundraiser gala was only a few weeks away, and it'd hopefully be another rush of gold into thirsty coffers.

And to my surprise, a handwritten note had arrived in the mail.

It was from Geraldine. She'd personally requested my presence at the gala; the first I'd heard from her since my trip to Damar. Through August, I'd learned she was slowly returning to the museum, yet hadn't quite resumed her pre-theft pace. Though I contented myself with the knowledge the halls of Whitehill had at least one widow returned, I hadn't known how to react to the note. After much debating, and a nasty urge to shred the note for various reasons, I'd made a decision. If she wanted me there, I'd go. I didn't see why she would, but I'd never questioned Geraldine, and I wouldn't start then. I'd called and left word with Camila—I'd accept the invitation.

The next day, a courier had arrived with a gift for the event. I was convinced Geraldine was trying to say something, but as much as I tried, I couldn't decipher her meaning.

With my friends, things were good. Carrie was thriving on her personal side of things, aside from her dull boyfriend and her buckling knees under the weight of school. Lena was scheduled to start filming for her show soon, and talks of cast reunions planned for Fiji resorts already plastered gossip boards. Even with my friend's own growing responsibilities, they were still helping me pull strings and position myself in the public eye. With my distance from the museum, I was even seeing August from a fresher perspective. I hadn't realized how much he was maturing, becoming more and more like his father with every passing day. I knew he'd be exceptional at managing the Whitehill empire one day. That day was creeping up faster than I realized.

A stalemate had occurred on another battlefront. My parents and I had reached an impasse. I refused to surrender, and it frustrated them. They called me frequently, or sent others to reach me, but I didn't always answer. The more time I had, the more distance that gave room for resentment to fester, the more I wanted acknowledgement. An apology would be too much to ask for, but I wanted them to simply admit the facts I was learning to be true. I didn't know if my parent's pride would allow that—but I didn't know if I could continue without it.