To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirteen: Witch Hunt

"Poppy Flowers" by Vincent van Gogh (1887), stolen 1977, recovered 1987, stolen 2010 - value $55 million

Chapter Thirteen

With October, came rain.

Torrents of rain, drenching the residents of the usually sun-soaked state in something entirely different. It was the type of rain that sometimes turned shy, occasionally becoming soft traces of quivering drops or coy clumps of mist. But, more often than not, it was pelting bullets of shockingly cold water. Local residents were bewildered. It was odd and rather unexpected in the sheer amount of precipitation, but I would say it was overall welcomed.

For me, however, it wasn't as welcomed.

On one hand, the parched land could use a refresh, and the reservoirs certainly needed a boost. The rain dampened thirsty expanses of dusty valleys and replenished dwindling rivers. It was good in that aspect. Water shortages were a big deal no matter how ignored or reoccurring. I'd grown up hearing the complaints of restricted water use in my neighborhood, and had seen the outrage when fines were imposed when homeowners watered their massive lawns anyway. I had been to enough climate galas to be pissed off at my neighbors when it happened, and attended enough environmental support brunches to know how dire low water levels could be. One single bout of rain wouldn't fix the root of the issues, or prevent it from happening again, but it was a much needed downpour.

On the other hand, rain meant people were driven inside. Impatient tourists and bored locals looked for entertainment under roofs and concrete sanctuaries. Actually, this was more of a mixed bag than simply a negative. A lack of outdoor options meant the museum was packed—which was good. It also meant a lot of people around, many of whom seemed incapable of leaving me alone—which was bad. If I wasn't dealing with accusations, I was dealing with superficial sympathy.

"Another flood warning."

Another con to add to the list.

August's voice startled me out of my daze, causing me to blink confusedly before my office window. I'd been staring at the patter of drops washing the central courtyard; eyes stuck on the statue in the middle. The stony figure stood majestically in the rain, reaching to the weeping heavens, but I hardly paid the beautiful combination notice. I was admittedly distracted—with rain like that, came thoughts. They overflowed my brain and spilled out my ears like gutters sputtering out downpour. I loved the rain, but I didn't always have the right mindset for the melancholy storms could invoke.

"Flooding?"

"Yeah, for us and the counties nearby. The ground is so hard and dry that water can't seep into it fast enough. The rivers can also get overfilled, coasts can flood with the tides, and not to mention the wildfires cleared everything out so there's nothing to slow the water down," August continued from behind me. He rattled off his words a little too knowledgeably.

I frowned, turning to look at him. It was our usual scene. He was in a chair before my desk, an entirely too large coffee in hand, but his phone was in the other. "Are you reading an article about it or something?"

"Yeah, I got the alert and looked up the flood zones. Led me down a rabbit hole. Did you know about this 'megaflood' experts are saying could happen here? Not from these storms, but just in general. Why does this say we're 'overdue' for it?"

August was engrossed. He'd always craved knowledge at heart, something I found both endearing and woeful. He was the heart of an art museum, the soon-to-be-brain of a large business empire, and golden inside and out, but he loved the pursuit of something more. That only meant August was out of place, and it made me think of Carrie. The two people I was closest with were out of place the way some people just were, whether they knew it or not.