To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Three: Agents and Graves

Right then, he also looked more strained than I'd ever seen him. His normally bright blue eyes, once brimming with teasing mischief, were tired and marred by deep purple. He was slightly pale, and he looked entirely too tightly wound.

"When are your parents getting in?" I asked, leaning forward onto my elbows, twiddling a pen between my fingers. August's eyes focused on the pen, looking up in a silent warning not to start clicking or tapping. I'd often driven him nuts clicking a pen; it was a favorite pastime of mine, done consciously or not.

"Their flight lands at six. They're coming straight here."

"And Geraldine?" I asked hesitantly. August gave me a grave look, his throat bobbing before answering. Frustration flickered across his face and settled in his eyes.

"She won't admit it, but she's devastated. I don't know why she's acting like it's not a big deal. She's very focused on moving forward," he revealed. I frowned in confusion.

"Moving forward as in how the museum will bounce back, or moving forward in the investigation?"

"Bouncing back. I can't tell if she thinks the painting will be recovered soon, so it's nothing to worry about, or if it hasn't really hit her yet that its gone. Or it has hit her, and she's just pretending like it doesn't bother her for appearances."

If that was the case, I wondered who the show for appearances was for. What was the motive, and who was the intended audience? Was it for museum personnel to show she wasn't worried, and the employees didn't need to be either? Was it for the public, to reassure we were as steady as ever? Or was it for her circle, to show them she wasn't affected by the loss of millions?

Is it an act of leadership or a shrug to the public?

With Geraldine, it could've been all of the above, or it could've been for her own reasons. It was always hard to tell with her.

"She has her family. She'll get through this," I promised. I tried to pour reassurance into the words, but I wasn't sure how strong their effect was. August nodded half-heartedly, knowing as well as I did the Widow wasn't just any painting.

It'd been the final anniversary gift from Mr. Whitehill before he died, and eventually the reason Geraldine decided to open a museum. It was the most famous work by her most favorite artist. She really, truly loved it. It was a sad piece that screamed grief, but Geraldine admired the raw emotion captured on canvas, and seemingly found something in the watery eyes of the lone lady. She'd cherished it even before Mr. Whitehill had passed away, and after his death I think it'd taken on a new meaning.

From one weeping widow to another, I think a special bond had formed.

August was only a young teenager when his grandfather died, but he'd taken on his grandfather's, and even his father's, desire to gift Geraldine with art. The Whitehill family was always prowling for new pieces, and I knew more works would continue to join their firmly established ranks. But I wasn't sure any could, or would ever, hold a candle to the grieving woman in her gilded frame.

"Gramma's with the FBI now. I'll let them know you're here." August let out a small and quiet sigh, obviously desperate for a break and not eager to return. I was sure it was why he'd escaped to my office. Not only to see or talk to me, but to sit and have a moment away. My office was always open for him to hide as long as he could from the pressures of being a Whitehill. But August stood as he always did, fixed his sleeves, and settled back into his public persona before slipping out the door.

I hesitated when August left, wondering if it'd be better if I followed. It probably would, but there was something tempting about letting the prowling hounds come to me on my own turf—yet there was also no guarantee they wouldn't ask me to go with them anyway, and I hated to wait. So, with my own resigned sigh, I stood and made my way out. As much as I appreciated August offering to go find them, letting me have a few more minutes before I had to face the music, I couldn't avoid the symphony forever.