To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty: Symphonies and Reputations, Mr. Gastapolous

"Nozze di Cana" by Paolo Veronese (1562-1563), stolen by Napoleon's French Revolution Army in 1797, currently at the Musée du Louvre as its largest painting - value unknown (priceless)

Chapter Thirty

My heart stuttered a melody.

Simon was a symphony I wanted to join. My audition had hardly begun; I had nothing prepared. He was leaning, and I was scrambling under a spotlight I hadn't expected, but couldn't bring myself to hide from. His fingers flexed against stone, and I readied myself for beautiful wrongdoings...

But then he pushed himself away.

Cymbals scraped, drums burst, harps snapped. I was reminded of the truth. Angels may flirt with temptation, but rarely ever did they fall.

Simon's chest rapidly rose and fell while my breath froze in my lungs. I watched him take several steps back. He slowed himself with deep inhales; his training took the reins to guide him to clarity. He wasn't looking at me anymore. His hand rose to rub his neck, and he shuffled even further away.

The canyon carved deeper.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, glancing at me. "Old habit. Probably just a car backfiring."

"Right," I croaked. My head still spun with regret from moments passed; my chest was still pummeled by chances not taken. I summoned defenses of nonchalance and cleared my throat. "It's fine. Glad to know I'd be in expert hands if it was real. Never know these days, right?"

That was the wrong thing to say. His spine stiffened and his shoulders tensed. Regret just kept growing and growing like blooms in my veins.

"Are you ready to go back?"

I wasn't, but I nodded.

Now that I was removed from his touch, I could breathe. And now that I was no longer breathing his air, away from his appeal that addled my composure like fumes, my mind could remember a cold fact—Simon's job used to go much further than protecting museums. His ranks used to watch for more than just burglars. Loud, startling bangs weren't always the bellowing of a car, but instead a cry of violence.

Simon held up the tape as we left the scene behind. The grounds seemed darker and colder now, everything siphoned and lost into our almost moment. Words unsaid were ignored even as they walked like elephants between us. We trudged back to the main building, soldiers slogging home after losing a battle we'd been blindsided with. We weren't who we were before. There was a haze about us now, a discomfort spurred by the just-missed encounter, a barrier that prevented our gazes from crossing to the other. We couldn't look. We couldn't reach for words to address it; that would make it real. We couldn't allow ourselves to cross that line, too afraid of what we'd have to face if we did. Or at least, I was. I didn't know what fears Simon had, but I knew what daggers I held in my cold hands.

So, as it had to be, it was Simon who broke the silence first.

"My buddy, he, uh, he got shot. That's why I..." he trailed off. I glanced over, scrutinizing his expression, but he stared straight ahead. "Reed," he finished. "The guy who left."

"I'm sorry. Did he..."

I faltered, not knowing where I was going with my question. I reached for another instead. "Did it happen last summer? Before Greystone became Riverwide?"

"No, it was a few years back. Not even in this country, actually. It was a job that went wrong overseas." His stance was still rigid. His heart was too big. His tone was too coarse and detached; his eyes were wild under layers of stone. "I was the one who found him. Luckily, it was just his leg. It didn't hit bone. It could've been worse."