To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Eight: Pressed Until Flat

"Jacob de Gheyn III" by Rembrandt van Rijn (1632), stolen 1966, 1973, 1981, and 1986 (nicknamed "takeaway Rembrandt") - value $13 million

Chapter Eight

I spent more time than necessary sitting in my car outside the sandwich shop. I'd already bought the food, the smell of pressed paninis wafting from my passenger seat, but I was having a hard time starting the car.

I needed a moment.

I was thinking. There were still news segments being run outside the museum, still reporters talking with brash animation before cameras crowding sidewalks, still voices cluttering the media with speculation and repeats of minuscule details. Still swarms of buzzing questions I couldn't fully swat away. Reporters weren't allowed on the property, but they hovered on the edges like a domed forcefield held them back, and they only had to wait with trained patience for it to burst.

I felt the weight of possible paths, futures, and decisions as heavily as I felt the responsibility of my name, title, and past.

I'd received two more phone calls while in the shop from news stations hoping for an interview. I still assumed I wasn't the only one receiving the calls, but I couldn't tell for certain until I got back to the museum and asked around. When I returned, my ears would need to grace the ground as I did my own scavenging for information. Because if I was the only one getting the calls, things were going to get a lot more interesting than they already were, and that said more than it should.

I started the car, knowing paninis were best enjoyed hot, and August didn't deserve a stale lunch because of my weak will. It'd been a long morning, but the day was still ruggedly dragging on. I was extremely glad the Whitehills were coming back; truly grateful Eliza was okay and it'd all turned out well. The museum was self-sufficient, but having a driver to lead the steer was always best.

My phone rang again.

If there was ever a time I'd considered running my phone over with my car, to listen to the intrusive thoughts snaking in my skull, it was right then. But the caller wasn't a reporter. Regardless, and effectively squashing my short-lived relief, the person calling had just as many questions.

"Hello?"

"Have you talked to mom and dad?" Carrie demanded. I pressed my head further into the headrest. Carrie could turn on charm like a tap, and right then said tap was firmly screwed shut. It was a shame, because charm and grace were favors I was tired of giving and in dire need of receiving.

"Why?"

"I've done all I can. They've been a lot more... them than we expected." Carrie sighed. My head tapped against the headrest, a gentle rocking that mimicked a soft slam. "You're going to have to call them."

I internally whined in dispute, but I knew I did; I had to call my parents. Carrie could only do so much to keep them off my back for any period of time. The 'I'm busy' excuse only went so far. It especially floundered when your father was a prominent venture capitalist and your mother was a real estate agent for the top one percent. They had a different definition of 'busy', and in their eyes it never seemed to apply to me.

How could I be busy when I work at a museum, right?

"Thanks, Care." I faltered, but steeled myself to a promise. "I'll call them tonight after work."

My sigh swelled, loud in that moment of familial reflection, announcing the resurgence of beaten back emotion. Carrie stayed quiet. We had an understanding, and it was one that didn't require words or comparison. In truth, there were a lot of things deemed unnecessary to say. Either from our shared origins, time spent together in upbringing, or just a mutual understanding of the world, our silence bore more fruit than our words ever could. We didn't have to speak. She knew, and so did I.