5. Henry
5
HENRY
I’m going to be very honest. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Amelie is currently dragging me to a bakery I’ve never heard of. I’m shocked that I even got this far; I sort of expected her to slam my arm in the door, but that wasn’t the case. She took my wallet, led me out of her building, and hasn’t said a word since.
I guess I should take it as a positive that she hasn’t yelled at me, but honestly, I’d rather her do that than keep giving me cold glances.
We’re coming up on a building that looks worn. The lettering on the window reads Parlon’s Patisserie. I try to get the door for Amelie, but she steps in front of me and opens it herself. She even goes so far as to pull it closed behind her. I wordlessly open it back up and follow, aware that this is probably going to be the least fun morning of my life.
And I deserve that. I am technically blackmailing her.
“ Dave! ” Amelie sings into the empty café. She does a little spin in the middle of the floor, then leans against the counter. “I’ve brought you a victim.”
I tense up involuntarily. She notices, and the corner of her mouth lifts at my discomfort. I can’t tell if I’m irritated or enjoying this. Maybe a bit of both. The mix of anxiety coursing through me, along with being in Amelie’s presence again, is bound to be confusing.
A short man, who I assume is Dave, walks out from behind the counter. His graying hair and generally round stature aren’t threatening in the slightest, but maybe that’s the goal.
“Hiya,” Dave says to Amelie before sliding his eyes to me. “Who are you?”
“He’s my friend,” she says before I can answer.
I expect some sort of question or elaboration, but neither are necessary. Dave just says, “Ah. Hello, friend.”
“Hello,” I say warily. “Who are you?”
I understand that he’s Dave. But I have no idea who Dave is.
“He’s my hero,” Amelie deadpans, motioning to him. “He makes the best coffee in the city.”
“So she says,” Dave sighs, but his eyes wrinkle at the corners. He’s smiling without fully doing so. “What can I get you started with?”
I tap my foot as I read over the menu. Nothing stands out—nothing that won’t give me a cavity within seconds, anyway. I don’t understand people who dump a pound of sugar in their coffee. I don’t even like to flavor it.
“I’ll take a black coffee,” I say.
In 3…2…
“You’re still addicted to black coffee?” Amelie scoffs. She looks more disgusted than she did when I showed up at her door, and that’s saying a lot. “Try a macchiato, for goodness sake.”
“I don’t want a macchiato.”
“But there are so many flavors!”
“I don’t like any of them.”
She frowns. “Have you ever considered removing the broomstick that’s shoved up your?—"
“Is that all?” Dave interrupts, cutting Amelie off with a smile.
She grins back, erasing all the venom in her stare. “My usual?”
“I’ve already got it.” He holds up a brown paper bag and a large to-go cup.
“That’ll be it, then,” she says, handing over a twenty she snagged from my wallet.
I take the coffee that Dave gives me and lift the cup to my mouth, aware that Amelie is watching my every move. Her eyes are glued to mine as I tip it back. She’s either trying to gauge my reaction to the drink or make me nervous, the latter of which works too well.
The scalding hot coffee burns my throat on the way down, but I keep my expression neutral. “Hm. This is good.”
“Thank ya.” Dave gives me a solid nod. He slides the change to Amelie, and she slides it right back to him. With a sigh, he puts it in the register, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. I’m guessing that Amelie frequents this coffee shop, and that this is a fight they have every time. He knows not to argue with her. He knows that she’ll win.
Before I can bid the man goodbye, Amelie grabs my wrist and drags me outside.
“You’re in a rush,” I note.
She hums. “Well.”
“Well, what?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t do this right now.”
So I don’t.
There are a few fold-up tables outside the patisserie. I have no doubt that the wind is strong enough to knock them over today, but no one seems to pay that any mind. Amelie takes a seat under an umbrella and starts picking at the fruit tart she just purchased. I sit across from her, taking the liberty of studying her face, of noting what’s different about her and what stayed the same.
She is the same, at least outwardly.
Her hair hasn’t changed—it’s still light brown, wavy when she hasn’t bothered to style it. She’s got a ribbon tied in the back, which is new, but it suits her. Red polish covers her nails. The shade matches her lipstick perfectly, which I know was purposeful. She still wears the same silver necklace her mom gave her in middle school, the same earrings that complete the set.
I make the mistake of looking at her eyes, which are burning a hole right through my forehead.
“I’m not sure why you’re staring at me as though I’ve sprouted antennae,” she says, annoyance bleeding into her voice. “Let’s get this over with.”
I exhale. “Alright. Let’s recap.”
“We don’t need to recap. You spoke fifteen minutes ago.”
“Alright,” I say again. “I need your help tracking down a painting.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” She takes a long drink of her coffee, slams it back down on the table. “What do you want from me? And I swear, if you say your help , I will take that coffee and dump it down the neck of your shirt.”
The corner of my mouth ticks up, threatening to give me away. “I want your resources.”
Her jaw tightens, and I know I’ve successfully gotten under her skin. I shouldn’t try to—especially not right now. But her having a reaction to me, any reaction, is too tempting a thing to let get away.
Besides, it’s not like she’s innocent in this whole thing.
“That’s just what every girl wants to hear, if you’re curious.” Amelie leans back in her chair, letting it tip back just slightly. “But the thing is, I don’t have the resources. That’s not my department. If you seriously want my help, I have two rules.”
“Which are?”
“One.” She puts a finger up. “You won’t be working with just me. I’m not a one-woman circus. I can’t help you without my team, so they’ll have to be in on the details.”
“I have no opposition to that,” I say truthfully.
“Good. Two.” She leans forward. “This will not get out. And I mean that, Henry. You think you’re smug, threatening me with that piece of plastic, but that’s preferable to what could happen otherwise.”
Her face is completely unreadable. She gives nothing away as to what those happenings might be, and for a second, I wonder if she’s lying. If she’s finally perfected the act. But there’s a certain desperation in her voice, one that’s so intent, I know she isn’t. Her face may be emotionless, but her voice tells all.
The strangest sense of worry comes over me as I wonder what could possibly be so threatening. What is she really involved in? What comes with this job she has?
Why do you care, and can you make it stop ?
“Okay,” I say, attempting to keep those thoughts at bay. “I can work with that.”
“Good. Now, what are we looking for? What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know,” I admit sheepishly. “I was kind of hoping you’d just…know where to look.”
She blinks once. Twice. “You think I have a radar in my brain?”
“I just thought you’d have some ideas. You do this stuff frequently, right? You know the patterns?”
“I don’t keep up with all the Heist Drama, if that’s what you’re asking.” She crosses her arms. “Where did the piece get stolen from? Was it displayed?”
“No. It was in my studio.”
She turns that information over in her mind. “When was it taken?”
“Yesterday. When I got home in the afternoon, it was gone. The lock on my door was broken.”
Amelie narrows her eyes. “Is this a roundabout way of saying you suspect me? Is that what this is?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, not at all.”
I shouldn’t sound so confident in that answer, but for some reason, I just know it wasn’t her. Maybe it’s wishful thinking; maybe I’m na?ve. But she doesn’t know where I live, and she didn’t seem to know I was in the city, so I’m sort of counting on it to be true.
“Hm.” Amelie leans forward more, enough that we’re elbow to elbow now. “What if we make a decoy for you to put in your studio? Then you can nab the thief there.”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes, that would help, but it isn’t enough. I need the original back, unharmed and quick. ”
“Can’t you just try to replicate it?”
I bark a laugh, and she rolls her eyes. “ Replicate it?”
“Oh, here we go.”
“I can’t just replicate it. It’s art.”
“Okay!” Amelie holds up her hands in an innocent gesture. “Geez. What did the thing even look like?”
I exhale. “You know Ophelia? By Friedrich Heyser?”
She gives a weak shrug. “Yeah, I know it. Were you ripping it off?”
“No,” I say coolly. “But it’s a rendition of that piece. I’m meant to have it in a week, and I’ve only just begun the final touches.”
“Sounds like a procrastination issue.”
If I weren’t so worried she’s going to turn me down, I’d laugh.
“Please, Amelie,” I say, hoping my voice is sincere. “Can we work together or not?”
She licks her lips. “I’ll have to ask my team first.”
“Okay.” I nod. “We can meet up later this week and discuss a plan.”
Wordlessly, Amelie stands and hands me her cell phone. “Put your number in.”
I look up at her. “That isn’t necessary.”
“What, you have carrier pigeons?”
A laugh almost escapes me, but I do my best to stifle it. “I meant, we can just make an arrangement now, rather than discussing it later.”
And I still have your number saved.
It’s a ridiculous thought to have, really. Surely her number has changed in four years, but I can’t bring myself to delete it.
“That won’t work,” Amelie says. “I’m a busy woman.”
“Yes, I’m sure your kleptomaniac hobby is grueling.”
She frowns. “I’m offended you don’t think I can make it full time.”
I just sigh and take her phone. A part of me is tempted to look for my number, see if she still has mine , but I don’t. She’s watching me like a hawk, and I know she’s suspicious enough.
I quickly punch in my number, then ring myself once so I have hers. The chances of her contacting me are slim, which is probably why she wanted my information, not vice versa. She wants the upper hand.
“Let me know soon, please,” I say. “I’m on a deadline.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to make your life easier,” she says dryly, shoving her phone into her pocket and walking away. The tension in my body seems to melt away the further she gets, but once she’s about three feet away, she spins back around and walks toward the table with a glint in her eye. Unintentionally, I hold my breath as she approaches, and I don’t release it until she’s right in front of me.
“You never told me,” Amelie says, head tipped to the side, “how you know what I do.”
I blink. That isn’t what I expected her to say. I mean, it’s not as though I had much time to think up options, but that wouldn’t have been one of them.
“I’ve seen you myself,” I say quietly.
I’ve caught her once, and I’m certain I’m the only one to ever do so.
That’s what’s on the SD card in my pocket. I’ve had the footage of her strolling around the museum for a few weeks. Recorded it on my phone camera out of a panicked instinct. I’m glad I did, because the security cameras were cut that night. I’m sure that was the work of her team.
I happened to be in the museum that night, trying to find a bill that my dad had left in his office. He often sends me on petty errands, so I thought nothing of it. I unlocked the maintenance door and got in.
Amelie got in too. Right behind me, I think. I didn’t know it at first.
She was quiet, clearly. No shattering things or whispering curses under her breath. It was completely silent—the thing that gave her away wasn’t noise. There were no whispers, or footsteps, or heightened breaths.
You know what it was?
It was her perfume.
The reality of the situation is nearly impossible. I don’t know how she walked past the office door without noticing it was open, or how I managed to be close enough to breathe in the scent. But she did, and I was, and that godforsaken perfume…
Regardless, I should’ve turned it in by now. I know this. But when I confirmed that it was her after watching the footage, I just couldn’t.
I haven’t let the SD card be more than two feet away from my person since then. My intentions of actually turning it in are zero. I’m aware that it’s morally unsound to keep it hidden, but quite frankly, I don’t care.
“Okay,” Amelie says finally, after staring at me for what feels like years. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
She leaves again, and this time, she disappears around the corner.
I stay at the table for a moment, waiting until she’s gone to breathe. Something about her—now, more than in the past—absolutely unarms me. Her composure, maybe. The way she carries herself in this insane situation I just threw us into. It’s different. New. Inexplicably tempting.
But I’ve still got questions.
My main one being, why isn’t she the slightest bit suspicious of why I went to her and not the police?
I’m shocked she didn’t ask. That’s the one question I would’ve answered with no hesitation. It would’ve been simple, would’ve rolled right off the tongue.
My dad is crazy and won’t let me get real help, and somehow, I think you’re my only hope.
Amelie never met my father. I was able to keep her away from that mess; therefore, I’ve got no idea if she’d believe it. What kind of man wouldn’t go to the police for something like this?
I shake my head and stand, tossing my coffee cup into the trash. It’s fine. It’s irrelevant. If all goes to plan, I’ll have my piece back within the week, and Amelie and I can part ways. She’ll hate me doubly, I’ll be even more confused, and we’ll never cross paths again.
Simple.