To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Forty-One: Her Son, My Sun

"En Canot" by Jean Metzinger (1913), confiscated by Nazis around 1936 from the National Gallery, displayed in the Degenerate Art Exhibition in 1937, missing ever since - value $2.4 million

Chapter Forty-One

When February came, Simon's time at Whitehill came to an end.

I still hadn't gone back. I spent my time doing anything else. I supported my sister, went to lunches with Lena, and attempted to lure August away from those haunted grounds. I tried my hand at crocheting, sourdough starters, and even began to tackle the pile of books on my nightstand. I wanted to see what could bloom outside of those walls, away from the paint fumes and stench of suspicion. I wanted to see who Eleanor was. Who I was, if anyone, when allowed to be something else—when allowed to be someone else.

I am not a Whitehill.

To August's dismay, there were no more coffee runs, or rescues from awful meetings, or time spent together at the museum. Not anymore. I had coffee at my place, an unchecked ex-work email, and no desire to set foot on Whitehill grounds. To my own dismay, I noticed August seemed to think I would change my mind. He appeared deep rooted in beliefs I'd flip as soon as the investigation officially ended, or if the museum apologized, or if given the chance. I didn't have the heart to tell him any different. In that same coward's heart, I knew my only plan was continued avoidance.

I had to.

Everything was different. I was different. I was perfectly happy in my bubble, waist-deep in abandoned hobbies and a blossoming relationship. I didn't spend as much time with my friends as I used to, but I was trying my best, and I'd found new sides to myself in my free time.

I wouldn't go back. Not ever. Not even for a visit.

I repeated that every dawn, every day, and every night. It was a reminder, even to myself, on days I found myself taking wrong turns on familiar roads, solely by memory of heart. It was a reminder I etched in my mirror, my bedposts, and my psyche. I wasn't going back. I wasn't. Even as the FBI unofficially-officially petered out their investigation into me, I refused. The fundraiser had been enough. Besides, I was fed enough information from those around me to sate my curiosity. I didn't have to wonder how the museum was faring, or wonder about its revival.

No, my feelings about Whitehill were complicated now—both the museum and the family.

Especially because I'd seen Simon's dedication to the museum while he was there. I'd witnessed the early mornings, the late nights, the hollowness in his eyes. There'd been times he'd run himself ragged, becoming a skeleton of sharply burned angles of bone, all so his team didn't have to, so he could help Whitehill. There'd been mornings he'd rubbed his neck while standing from my bed, having hardly slept enough to call it a nap, let alone rest. I'd seen what he'd given to the museum. I'd seen what he'd cut from himself to fill its holes, what he'd wrenched from his reserves to keep going.

I despised what it'd done to him.

More than anything else, I despised the part I'd played in it. It never should've gotten to this point. Whenever I thought too hard on it, the anger lifted its head, and I had to wrangle it back down. So I focused on other things instead. For example, there were few things more attractive than a good leader. It was no surprise Simon wore the title he didn't want with a skill he didn't acknowledge, and that was hot; it was a sexy silver lining of a brutal situation. I'd cement myself a liar if I claimed not to think so. But everything else he'd had to go through?

It pissed me off. By the time it was over, he'd given so much to that cursed building.

So have I.