To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty-Eight: Not Guilty

"Woman's Head" by Pablo Picasso (1939), stolen 2012, recovered 2021 - value $17.3 million

Chapter Forty-Eight

"Beautiful service."

"Just beautiful! So fitting, really."

"Full of surprises, too."

"Hush, Frederick. Be respectful."

The individual chatter was quiet among the crowd, but the large number of people made it seem loud. It reminded me of a grain of sand; small on its own, but heavy when multiplied. This afternoon wake was public. It directly followed the private ceremony of the morning, and was even more overflowing with visitors. The grounds of Whitehills crawled with mourners.

I hadn't said a word since my eulogy. But Simon's grip hadn't lessened on my hand, and his presence hadn't left my side. We stood together. We sipped aperols under the dappled sun, quiet beneath vibrant Jacarandas. Those haunted trees were in full blossom. They were putting on their best show, as if to honor the woman who'd loved them so much—as if their brightest colors were only for her.

How it hurt she wasn't here to see them.

There was a new memorial among the Jacarandas, though. A bench had found a home under the blossoms of the oldest tree, facing the fian as he stood guard over the museum. It was a place where one could sit and take in the entire empire she'd built; it was a bench taken from Damar. Hell, it was a bench I knew too goddamn well.

The Whitehill family stood by it, greeting every mourner who'd come to pay their respects. They were strong, united, hosting in a way that came naturally to them. I hovered on the edges.

I saw how sturdy they were, even in their grief. I saw how August had all of his gates up to guard his vulnerability, yet was still the graciously proud and sorrowful grandson he was supposed to be. I saw the struggle in his blue eyes, behind the barriers, in a way hardly anyone else could. I saw it. I felt the weight of knowing I used to have the key to those gates; the weight of knowing I used to know how to soothe those defenses, to provide my own for him, so he didn't have to worry about protecting himself when injured. In another life, I would've done it for him while he grieved.

I thought about how I didn't know how to do that anymore while I watched him beside his family.

I thought about a lot.

I should've looked away. But I didn't, and I was a silent spectator until his blue eyes met mine. Until, for a moment, I saw his gates tremble under the onslaught they tried to hold back, and I saw the crack that ran so deep from her death; the crack he was hiding so well from the eyes of most everyone else. I saw it like the white spark of a fatal flash—blinding, all-encompassing for the split second it was there, then gone.

Augustus Whitehill looked away, and I mourned the loss of more than just the Whitehill Widows.

"I'm surprised you came back."

Part of me didn't want to look. Part of me wasn't ready to move on, to close that chapter of my life, to give up the role of onlooker when it was all I had left. But the strings had been cut. The disease had been burned away, charred to defeat, and the root system would heal without me. It would grow, and someday it would be as healthy and lush as the Jacarandas. So I turned. I looked away from shattered remains, away from the empty hull of a piece of my heart, and away from a former friend to face the speaker.

Yolanda stared with a shrewd look on her face.

"I wasn't planning to," I told her.

My answer was honest, but even clear water wasn't trusted when pipes were rusty. Maybe Yolanda knew that. I didn't know; I didn't care. Simon squeezed my hand again, and I returned it, releasing him as I turned to fully face Yolanda. From the corner of my eye, I saw Simon slink out of earshot.