To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Eight: Pressed Until Flat

Because I loved my parents, but arguing with them the job I occupied was only my decision, and mine alone, wasn't a fun conversation to have. Especially when it was a rinse and repeat cycle, and when I knew it'd be even worse in the wake of the theft. I needed distance from my parents, at least for a while, but distance was a privilege in my lifetime. Perhaps it was even more of a privilege when names were as inescapable as legacies. My parents were my origins, my yesterday's explanation of tomorrow, but admittedly and innately good people with earnest hearts. We differed in matters of opinion, not matters of emotion. While they may love my connection to the Whitehills, they didn't quite love my job title or salary. While they loved me, they didn't especially love the choices I made.

The same couldn't be said for Carrie. She didn't follow the model of parental relationships that I as the oldest had established before her. Carrie still had hope and potential in their eyes. Carrie hadn't graduated, or fully chosen a career yet, and to them she was still malleable.

I thought they underestimated her.

"How's... life?"

Carrie had paused when uncertainty of how to phrase her question chafed her words. While there were things left unsaid, there was still plenty to ask about, and it was never clear where to start. But asking about the general umbrella of living was usually a safe bet; I could think of several questions that folded under that cover.

How's work? How's the investigation? How's Geraldine? How's August? How's having the FBI prowl, deconstructing every file, email, and personal detail about every employee? How's it going trying to convince mom and dad you haven't thrown your life away? How's it going trying to design exhibits people might not like or want to come to?

How's life, Eleanor?

"Fine."

Carrie let out a breathy laugh, a trickle of broken ice, relief, and amusement. "Alright. I have to run to class, but dinner tomorrow? Your place?"

"Sure," I agreed. Immediately, I wondered how she'd so smoothly invited herself to my apartment for dinner, but I supposed I'd grant her that younger sibling privilege. It was my role, duty, and honor.

I hung up with Carrie, hurriedly getting on the road back to the museum; the paninis were surely on the edge of being cold. I would blame California's horrid drivers and convoluted traffic. It was a standard excuse, and would stunt any dismay, instead encouraging sympathy and memories of the same.

I pulled into the back lot of the museum and stepped out, clutching the paninis tightly as surprisingly chilled gusts of wind reached for my lunch's dwindling warmth. There was little warmth for myself to give, but the faint traces of heat my lunch still clung to were easy victims for the energy-hungry universe.

The parking lot was emptier than it should've been as I crossed its paved plains.

The museum was open again. In fact, the first day of our return in the post-Widow era had been contrastingly busy to the currently scarce attendance. While I was unsure if I could say I was surprised at the elevated attendance, I can say that I wish I was. I wish I couldn't see, or didn't understand, the intentions of those gripping tickets in their hands as they crossed our threshold. But I did. People wanted to walk the rooms the thieves had, see how the museum cloaked the broken exhibit, and gawk at the cameras that didn't do their job. They wanted to launch smirks at the guards, whisper and giggle at any slipped cracks of stress, and remark on the event to the ticket agent, the guide, the janitor, and any other employee who got a little too close.

Crude jokes. Sharp laughs. Low blows. Slight sympathy from some perhaps, as gooey as the syrup news-reporters often poured on their words, but mostly raised brows and haughty, unspoken accusations. The idea it wouldn't have happened if x person was in charge, if y person was there that night, if something so obviously the solution was completed, the heist wouldn't have happened. It was human arrogance, ridicule, and foolishness.