To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-One: December Dread

"The Boy in the Red Vest" by Paul Cézanne (1888-1890), stolen 2008, recovered 2012 - value $91 million

Chapter Thirty-One

November was as dual-toned as a crocus.

It was conjointly opposite, like sour candy: sharp and biting, then sweet and apologetic.

November was a melodious symphony of brittle yellows and barking blues, of pushover reds and lyrical purples. November was teetering on the edge, and wondering if the fall was really that bad; knowing one couldn't swim, but leaning in to kiss the siren anyway. November was stumbling away, because the same fear that chased me to the edge was the same terror urging me away from the drop.

The next few weeks were a blur of clashing headlines, underhanded schemes, and determined avoidance. I busied myself with repairs, smeared paste on my shattered pieces and hoped they would hold, and discarded what was too far gone to save—and yet I avoided the most fragile cracks of all. I stayed away from the museum, from Simon, and from as many Whitehills as I could. My mind was haunted by phantoms, tormented by wants and maybes, and full of conflicts, even as I tried to outrun everything like the coward I was.

Things were changing. They always were.

As the days grew shorter and the light waned, I distanced myself from my friends and nudged them out of my guard. They'd been extremely useful in helping me gather the resources I needed, but it was beyond time to cut them loose. I barricaded myself in isolation and accepted the battle had not turned out the way I'd meant it to.

Because my city was no longer mine.

The parties I used to shine at continued, but my invitations were lost. The streets I used to walk along no longer cheered my name; my place in the current had been given away without notice. The dances I used to know by heart had changed, because the lyrics had been edited, and too many things had been built without me. I was a stranger to my city, my friends, and myself. The rumors were cruel, the Pontings were scheming, and the carefully coordinated plan was irreparably altered.

Some people believed my interviews. Others criticized my attention whoring. Opinion swayed with the wind and the shifting consensus of the majority; a willow tree I couldn't control.

And my job was no longer mine.

That, too, was taken from me like everything else. August was the one who brought the news to my door. They sent him to do their dirty work, even though it wasn't his job; even though it should've been Geraldine, or Mr. Whitehill, or a member of the board. None of the people who'd made the decision had been brave enough to show their face at the outcast's burrow. Only August had dared to visit, bearing sorrow and apologies for his family's decisions. His honesty was appreciated, even when it cut open my career and ripped out its heart like the sacrifice it was. It was official now.

I shouldn't have been surprised. My office had been empty for too long. The other exhibit coordinators were overworked from carrying my weight on top of their own; they needed the space filled. So, though it almost killed me, I called to congratulate Yolanda on her promotion.

Something else changed, too. The vines of my family were pruned so only blood and thorns remained. It was clear the oncoming winter had exposed the rotting roots, allowing me to clear what I'd let grow unnaturally for too long.

Because I wasn't a Whitehill.

I never was. I never would be. I'd never be anything but who I was: a stranger who'd mimicked familiarity, a fox who'd slept among wolves. Geraldine had been my mentor, my idol; a woman who'd fiercely guarded her brood regardless of blood. She'd been the role model I'd always wanted, but never deserved, and she'd been everything to me.