To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty-Eight: I Warned You

"The Just Judges" (left) by Jan van Eyck or Hubert van Eyck (1430-1432), stolen 1934, one panel returned (right) by thief during ransom demand for the other half, deathbed confession by thief who swore to take the secret location of the missing piece to the grave - value unknown (priceless)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Click. Clack.

My heels struck pavement.

Click. Clack.

My ankles groaned under the strain of balancing, but years of experience held me steady and ignored their hardened pleas.

Click. Clack.

My dress smacked my thighs. Satin fluttered and danced as I pushed myself faster.

Click. Clack.

My group hadn't entered the foyer yet. They loitered outside. I knew why; the girls couldn't bring August inside when he was so determined to keep a watchful eye on my interaction with Simon. So he noticed when I broke away and began to run. August saw when my expression broke into sheer fear, when I slid into a panic that rivaled even the greatest of catastrophes.

"Eleanor, what is it? What's wrong?"

August rushed towards me, the girls hot on his heels. Lena looked confused, her gaze split between looking at me and looking behind me. Carrie's expression was already one of grim preparation; a sister willing to slide into vengeance if I needed it.

"We have to go!" I shouted. "It happened again."

August caught me as I barreled into him. Fear was syrupy in my heart and lungs, throttling me and my words.

"What happened again? Eleanor?"

"The museum!" I choked, already trying to tug August to the car. "I don't, I-I can't, we have to!"

"Breathe. You're going to hyperventilate," Lena pleaded.

"Eleanor, breathe," August ordered. His hands held me steady, forcing me to ground myself as I tried to take flight again. "Take a deep breath and tell us what happened. Was it Simon? Did he do something?"

I rattled air in and sobbed air out. My head was spinning and I couldn't see reason. If I could, I'd know I didn't have enough details; I had no idea the reality at the museum. It could've been a false alarm for all I knew.

But I couldn't see anything other than the blur of hysteria.

I trembled even as August's arms held me still. My fingertips had slipped from the edge, the floodgates had ripped open, and the chasm below had swallowed me in malicious delight. If the security system at the museum was announcing a second hit, then the screech echoing down gilded halls wasn't alarms—it was the tolling of funeral bells. It was the announcing of Whitehill's demise and the declaration of Riverwide's failings. The raised voice of an executioner as he pointed at me. The chant of the masses as they jostled and jeered. The screams of a descent there was no crawling back from. The end of all my endings, and the decay of my barely sprouted beginnings. It meant betrayal.

All I could feel was the incredulous daze of repetition. The injection of denial was attempting to push into my veins, trying to numb the thrashing nerves, but there was no reprieve when the truth was strong—stronger than any walls denial could build to contain it.

"He left," Lena commented with a furrowed brow. "Simon left as soon as we reached you. Why did he leave? What happened?"

"Alarms," I wailed. "Alarms!"

August's eyes widened as pieces of a horrid puzzle clicked together. Even through my panic, through my terrible tremors, enough key words had slithered past. They chained together to form a haphazard explanation. A curse spilled like blood from his lips.