To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Seventeen: Chartreuse and Chagrin

"Landscape with Cottages" by Rembrandt van Rijn (1654), stolen 1972 - value unknown (conflicting data)

Chapter Seventeen

I was falling apart.

I stomped to my office like a child, turning corners and barreling through halls like a scorned lover. My hands wanted to rip, my mouth wanted to scream, and my heart wanted to stop its uneven beat. I was furious, belligerent and unforgiving in my lash outs, and yet at the bottom of my murky depths was pain. I let the anger feed on it. I let it carnivorously devour, fueled by those reserves to grow all-consuming. I feared what'd happen if I didn't; when the anger was gone all I'd have left was my choices. All I'd have left to hold was my sins, my words, and my reputation; my pain would drown me to those bottomless depths.

Anger was a buoy, so I clung to it.

As I neared my office, voices carried to me from the long corridor that housed my destination. They grew louder and louder, but I didn't immediately recognize them. My defenses bristled again, and my spear leveled.

"I'm serious, what color do you think chartreuse is? No hints."

"Red. Deep-purplish red," another voice speculated after a moment. That voice wasn't as loud or bouncy as the first, it was low and reluctant. I found my anger faltering at their conversation.

"See, I was going to say purple, too. But a bright purple. Tooth fairy purple, you know what I mean?"

"I still think 'chartreuse' is a made-up color. So what is it, then?"

I recognized the second voice by then, those familiar low tones so mellow and smooth compared to the other's upbeat vibrancy. It was my acquaintance turned tentative friend, Simon. Could I call him a friend? Coworker didn't quite fit.

I could call you a lot of things, Simon Gatz, but 'mystery' might be the most truthful.

"It's real and it's green. Reminds me of the yellow-green crayon, actually. You know the one that looks green, but it's yellow? Anyway, I just learned about chartreuse. They have a whole color presentation in the lobby now."

"You're making up colors," Simon scoffed. I turned the corner then, finding the backs of two Riverwide security members. One was Simon as I thought, and the other was his right-hand man, Beck. They were headed away from me as they walked down the corridor. I tried to be quiet as I stepped into the hall, but both of their heads snapped to look over their shoulders at the soft patter of my steps.

"Sorry!" I stammered. "I didn't mean to scare you guys."

"You didn't, don't worry," Beck responded warmly. He politely turned to face me before walking to meet in the middle. I stopped short as he shrugged with his usual blinding smile and continued, "Job just makes us a little on edge sometimes."

"Right. Of course. Then I'm sorry for making you... edgier?"

I cleared my throat and tried for a weak smile, wiping shaky palms and trembling fingers on my pants. My voice was struggling to get out of my clogged throat. It was forced to fight through a tense mess of bruised emotions and choked back lumps; I was trying to shove everything down as I frantically grasped for normalcy.

My heart still skittered in my chest. Panic relentlessly urged me to retreat to neutral ground.

Which isn't here. Whitehill isn't neutral ground anymore, it's a battleground and I'm on the side I shouldn't be.

"Is everything okay, Eleanor?"

Of course, he would notice. Mr. Know-it-all-radar himself would see the unsteadiness I was trying to conceal; I was wrestling with myself, and he couldn't grant me the courtesy of ignoring the losing battle. Once again, I hated Simon Gatz.