2. Henry
2
HENRY
Amelie Benoit is five feet ahead of me on the sidewalk.
I don’t think she’s aware of it. If she were, she’d probably run down an alley or spin around and question me. Why are you following me? Have I done something to re-capture this attention of yours? Have you considered stepping in front of a taxi?
Or maybe she’d stay silent. Brush me off like she did in the museum. I have no idea anymore.
It’s taking a lot of willpower to stay where I am. To not approach her and attempt a conversation. I want to figure out what happened, why it happened, then promptly kiss her into oblivion like I’ve wanted to do since I last saw her.
Yeah. Definitely not going near that one .
Saying that Amelie and I have a past is…an understatement. It’s something I try not to think about, but if I’m honest, it invades my mind every day. No matter what I do to clear my mind, I fail.
I can go to parties and events galore, and at the end of the day, I’m still curious what she’s doing. If she’s okay. And it’s been that way for four years.
I used to know everything about her. Now I know exactly two things: she’s an art thief, and she wants my painting. The very one we met over today. Technically, I have no proof to back that assumption, but it was almost obvious. She stared at it like it was the most loathsome thing she’s ever beheld.
And with what I know about her, she’s going to get it.
Amelie is unaware that I know any of this. Honestly, I’m not sure I want that to change. By the look on her face, she didn’t even know I was back from school. It makes no sense—I got back a month ago, and since then, I’ve gotten my exhibit. It isn’t fully completed, but it must be enough that she noticed my name on advertisements for The Gallery.
She probably hoped it was a different Henry Arlington. She seemed quite disappointed to find out that it wasn’t.
Amelie turns the corner ahead of me, going to the left. Good. My penthouse is still a few blocks down, and I don’t want to look like I’m following her. I’m not. I’m aware of her, sure. But that’s only because she’s been terrorizing this city—and my mind—for years.
I try to shake all thoughts of her away as I walk into my building. The doorman gives me a quick nod, one that implies he knows me and doesn’t need my identification. This building is quite secure; upon entering, most people are requested to show their apartment key. If they haven’t got one, they’re asked to intercom their connection in the building. If that can’t happen, they’re escorted outside. It’s a level of thoroughness I’ve come to appreciate, especially when working on something confidential.
I stick my key into the top button in the elevator. The thing takes ages to start moving, and I’m not sure why I’m counting seconds like they matter. Something about that run-in has me extremely restless.
When the doors open, I go straight to my apartment and unlock the door. I’m not shocked to see my sister sitting on my couch, but I am shocked to find my dad beside her.
“Hen!” Lizzy says, waving me over to the coffee table. She’s been in my game closet, I guess, because she’s got a 500-piece-puzzle of a tree spread out in front of her. “Come inside. Dad has been waiting for you, so we’re puzzling.”
“ She is puzzling,” Dad corrects, “though I’m sure she could be editing her articles right now?”
Lizzy shrugs. “Could. Won’t.”
I fight the grin that I know would get me scolded. Liz, unlike me, takes a certain pride in getting under our dad’s skin. She’s three years younger than me and an absolute firecracker. I try to stay on Dad’s good side, only because he’s my employer.
Him and I have a good thing going. We rarely speak outside of business anymore; he owns The Gallery, and I paint pieces for him to display. Our relationship is not so much father-son as boss-employee. It’s been that way for years, and truthfully, I have no urge to change it.
Plus, he’s more apt to disown me than he is to say a cross word about Lizzy. She sort of won the favorite child spot at a young age.
“If this is about the latest piece,” I tell him, “I’m almost done. I’ll have it by the end of the week.”
“Good.” He nods, verifying that it is, in fact, about the latest piece. “I’ve got an auction quickly approaching. We can display that one.”
“Have you gotten any offers for me recently?” I ask, though I know he won’t tell me. My dad declines all other offers I get—he wants my art in his museum. Personally, I wouldn’t mind branching out. More publicity wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Getting away from my dad certainly isn’t the worst thing.
As expected, he shakes his head. “No. I assume they’ll contact you, rather than me.”
“Have they ever before?” Lizzy asks, looking up at Dad innocently. “I recall you saying?—”
“That’ll be enough, Elizabeth,” he says. Liz goes back to her puzzle, giving me a quick glare before she does so. “Can I see the piece, Henry?”
I blink. “You haven’t taken a look?”
“Didn’t want to overstep.”
“You’re in my living room with a bottle of my wine.”
“And I own the building.”
Fair.
“Follow me,” I say, removing my coat and tossing it over the back of my couch. I expect Lizzy to follow, but she starts talking to Betty, my cat, so I assume she’s preoccupied.
My studio is just another room in the penthouse, and it’s my most crammed. There’s hardly an empty space, save for the wall made entirely of windows. It’s a prize at sunset, but in the early mornings, it’s blinding.
I start to fish my key out of my pocket when I realize that the studio’s lock is broken.
It’s been chipped away. The metal is dented and scratched around the bolt, and the door is slightly open.
“What?” I mutter, opening the door with a single push.
My heart drops when I get a look inside.
Paint is spilled all over the floor. In corners. On walls, some on the window. Brushes and pallets are strewn across the floor, and my easel is the only thing that’s right where I left it.
My painting isn’t.
My painting is gone.
“What happened ?” Dad’s voice rises with annoyance. I hear footsteps run into the hallway, followed by Liz’s signature gasp. “I thought you kept this locked up!”
“You saw the same exact lock I did,” I say, dragging my hands roughly through my hair. How did this happen?
“This is unacceptable.” Dad crosses his arms. “When was the last time you worked on the painting?”
“Last night. Sometimes, I put it in the closet, but I left it out to dry. It’s almost completed.”
His face is drawn with aggravation. “Find it.”
“I will.” I have no idea how to do that.
“I need it before my event, Henry.” Dad huffs. “You need it back immediately. I’m not losing out on this.”
“I know. I’ll go to the police tomorrow.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake.
“No,” Dad says immediately. “You will not go to the police.”
“What else is he supposed to do?” Liz asks, moving into the room. She steps in a puddle of spilled paint, but she doesn’t seem to realize it. “It’s not like he had a tracker on it.”
“He will find it himself,” he says, instead of offering any further guidance. “The police will be no help.”
Liz scoffs. “We both know?—”
“He will be much more efficient on his own, Elizabeth,” Dad finishes, his voice final.
Neither of us decide to argue this time.
Dad mumbles something that I don’t catch before leaving. I hold my breath until I hear the front door close, signifying that he’s gone.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Lizzy says, looking around the room. “I swear, obviously. I wasn’t even here for that long before you showed up. It was only?—”
“Give me a second, Liz,” I say, sighing as I look around the room. The canvases in the corner are untouched, even the ones that have been painted. Only a few are fully completed, but whoever did this knew what they wanted. They didn’t look through their options; they ransacked the place for show.
I sit on the floor and grimace when I land in paint. Betty trots through the door, looking wary of each paint splatter. She steps in one, meows at me like it’s my fault, then curls up in my lap, leaving blue paw prints over my pants.
Liz lets out a dramatic sigh and sits down, managing to land directly in a glob of purple acrylic. “Check the footage, I guess.”
I scoff. “Yes, like he’d have the cameras on.”
Our father—the self-made man who has never once been satisfied—flat out refuses to leave the security cameras on in this building. He won’t tell us why, but I have a good guess that it has to do with his past. It’s no secret that he’s had a few run-ins with the police for…a couple of financial crimes. I presume he’d like to keep himself, as well as his children, out of any further misunderstandings. Anything shady that goes on in this building will not be tied to him. If he can be oblivious, maybe he can avoid the blame.
“What’s there to do besides file a report?” I ask incredulously. That was my initial logical response. Of course, who knows what that would really do. I have a feeling that a report for a missing painting wouldn’t get high priority.
But that’s my only option.
Unless…
“Lizzy,” I start, my brain spinning in dangerous circles. “How mad do you think Dad would be?—”
“Mad,” she says instantly. “Very, judging by the look on your face. But whatever it is, I say do it.”
I laugh dryly. The idea is horrible, absolutely pathetic, but I can’t overlook it. It’s the only thing sticking in my mind.
Amelie might know.
Amelie might help me find it.
I blink, forcing that idea away. No. What? She might have stolen it, for goodness sake. Even if I somehow got in contact with her, she wouldn’t help me. There’s no way.
“No,” I say aloud. “I don’t think I should.”
But what else do I have ?
Lizzy sighs and stands, still completely unaware of the paint on her legs. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. At this point, I don’t see how she could ignore it. “I’ve got to finish an article for work tomorrow. Tell me what you decide to do, Hen. I’ll help you if I can.”
“Thanks, Liz.”
She waves over her shoulder and leaves.
I stay on the floor for a good while, Betty asleep on my lap. The ideas coursing through my mind are horrible. Absolutely awful. Not a single one would work, and they all keep circling back to Amelie.
She would know.
Fine. Maybe she would. It’s impossible that she’d know the exact whereabouts, but she might have some knowledge, right? More than I do, surely. She has to know patterns. How these things usually go. Perhaps she’d enlighten me if I asked nicely.
She’d also hang you if she had the chance.
Yeah. There’s no way this will work.
And still…I can’t get the idea to leave my mind. Not completely. But then again, thoughts revolving around her never do.