6. Amelie
6
AMELIE
“You’re bluffing.”
“In your dreams.” I fan my cards out and hope that Olive can’t see them. I’m not really sure she can see—I think she’s legally blind. Her lenses are as thick as my cell phone. “I think Jerry is, though.”
“Don’t you dare turn it on me,” Jerry mutters, pushing a stack of chips toward the center. “I’ll raise ya thirty.”
“Mhm,” Olive hums, matching his stack. “Mimi’ll match you, too.”
“Don’t push me, Ol,” Mimi grumbles, staring at Olive over her purple rims. The cigarette in her mouth has long gone out, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “But sure. I’ll match the old bag.”
I grin. Every Wednesday, I find myself in my building’s activity room, playing poker with a bunch of eighty-year-olds. It’s nostalgic. Reminds me of weekends with my parents. Poker was—and still is—a family game, and I’ve known how to play since I could differentiate the suits of cards. Jensen normally plays too, but I didn’t make it up to the apartment to ask him. Olive nabbed me before I could get on the elevator.
It’s a great distraction from my everyday life. Today, it’s helping me get away from whatever just happened at Parlon’s. Why me ? Why does Henry—of all people—have to know? I guess it’s better him than law enforcement, but I don’t care. I can still be in a mood about it.
Ronald, our dealer for time’s sake, pulls me back to the present. “I think you all need a slap upside the head.”
“You don’t get input as the dealer,” I remind him, flashing a smile. “And anyways, we’re almost done. Jerry is about to fold.”
“I am not about to fold.” Jerry pushes another stack of chips to the center. “Who wants some of that ?”
Olive swears. “I ought to wring your neck, boy. I’m out.”
“I’m out, too,” Mimi sighs, slamming her cards on the table. She had a two and a nine, both different suits. Poor gal. Her poker luck is as good as my getting-out-of-being-blackmailed luck.
Jerry grins and looks at me. “Whatcha got, girly?”
I’ve got a six and an ace, but I’m not about to tell him that.
“Better than yours,” I say, raising my bet. Both Olive and Mimi make oooh ing sounds. Ronald just chuckles.
“I’m not sure I buy it,” Jerry says slowly.
I click my tongue. “You’re gonna want to be sure.”
He narrows his eyes. Lays his cards down. Two kings, which go nicely with the two queens on the table. “Beat that.”
“Dang it,” I mutter, setting my poor hand down. “Fine.”
Jerry is practically beaming as he gathers his chips. “You can’t lie to an old man.”
“Then why do we even try?” Olive huffs. “Someday we’re going to ban you, Jerry.”
I shrug. “It’d be no fun without him.”
“I’m certain it can’t be any worse.” Ronald slides the cards in front of me. “Another round?”
I nod and split the deck. Technically, this is a weekly thing, but today, I’m using it to avoid talking to Jensen. I have no real interest in telling him what just happened, because he’ll flip out and tell Meg, and then Meg will flip out, and then I have to deal with it all even though I didn’t ask to be in this position.
And I really want to nap.
“I’m out of this one,” Mimi mumbles, pushing her chair back. “Out of patience and out of chips.”
“Same here,” Jerry says. “I mean, I’m winning, but Jeopardy! is on.”
“Ooh!” Olive stands quickly, grabbing Ronald’s shoulder for support. He grunts as she digs her bony fingers into his skin, but she doesn’t notice. “Thanks for saying so.”
“Bye, Ol,” I say, giving her a backwards wave as she walks to the elevator. I stand to help Ronald out of his chair. Just as he puts the cards in his shirt pocket, the door to the stairwell swings open and Jensen appears.
I gape. Ronald gapes. Perhaps at Jensen’s apparent urgency, or the fact that he’s sweating through his shirt.
“Hello,” I say. “Did you just run down the stairs?”
“You guys played without me?”
“I lost, if it makes you feel better.”
Jensen doesn’t respond before going back up the stairs. I’ve got no idea why on earth we’re walking up sixteen flights of stairs when the elevator is in perfect condition, but I follow regardless and try to think while it’s quiet. Well, not quiet —Jensen is stomping, and he’s doing it loudly. I wonder if something has ticked him off or if he’s just his usual irritated self.
“I have something to tell you,” I say when we reach our floor.
“No,” Jensen says.
“No?”
“I wouldn’t.”
He opens the door to our apartment and trots inside, and I understand why.
Meg is sitting on my couch, a teacup in one hand and her phone in the other.
“Thank God,” I say, closing the door with my heel. “Now I can be your stand-in couple’s therapist.”
“That is not why I’m here,” Meg says, attempting to toss her blonde hair over her shoulder. She mostly fails, given that it’s no longer than her collarbone. “I’m here because we work tonight.”
I squint at her. She must’ve been here for a pretty good while, because I never saw her come through the lobby. I don’t bother questioning her on it, though—the teacup in her hand is getting all my attention.
“What?” She wrinkles her nose. “Stop staring at me.”
“You’re drinking my good tea.”
“Jensen made it for me.”
I spin toward him. “ You used my good tea?!”
He sighs. “Tea is tea, Amelie.”
“TEA IS NOT TEA.”
“Then I’ll buy you more.”
“Good.” I turn back to Meg. “Continue.”
She sets the teacup on the side table. It’s too close to the edge, but I keep my mouth shut. “Okay. I’ve made a couple marks on the floor plan, but nothing that’s like, detrimental. I also saw some advertisements for the museum yesterday. Photo must’ve been taken while you were there, because you’re in it.”
My ears turn hot, and suddenly, I couldn’t care less about the teacup. “What do you mean?”
She taps on her phone screen before handing it over. I’m unsure of what I’m looking at for a moment, but I realize it’s the museum’s website. The homepage.
And Henry’s exhibit is now being promoted with a photo of us looking at his piece. The one I’m stealing tonight.
“Gotta love that,” I mutter, clicking on the image to make it bigger.
Unless you know what the back of me looks like, you’d never guess that it’s me in the photo. I’m wearing my favorite bow, but lots of people probably wear bows. It’s a fabulous accessory.
I’m not mad, honestly. My calves look exquisite.
“Do you want me to take it down?” Meg asks, but I don’t answer right away. I finally let my gaze wander to Henry, and instantly, I wish I hadn’t.
While I’m looking at the painting in front of us, hands wrung behind my back, he’s looking at me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, handing her phone back. “It isn’t obvious. It could’ve been worse.”
“Much,” she agrees. I flop down beside her, curling my legs up under my thighs. I grab my laptop off the table and open it up, clicking the file she sent yesterday.
Meg, alongside being Jensen’s favorite nuisance, does all the techy things that need to be done. She gets us the museum floor plans, kills the lights and cameras, and gets us around security. I met her a few months after I graduated high school, and we stayed in touch, and eventually, this all just…happened.
Jensen came next. We were roommates when this whole thing kicked off—which, you can see, hasn’t changed—and I had to tell him. It was impossible to keep it a secret, especially when a friend of mine was constantly over here, discussing how we were going to tie up security guards.
He offered to help. Literally just…offered. Out of the blue. I don’t think he knew what he was getting into. I think he just had a crush on Meg.
Jensen walks into the living room with a bowl of cereal. He sits down on the coffee table and sighs. “Now that that’s all over, can we?—”
“Actually, I have a question for both of you.” My voice is a little too loud, and I know it’s because I’m nervous. Now is probably not the time to bring up Henry’s proposition, but I don’t think there’s ever going to be a good time. I can ease into it, though. “Have you heard anything about recently stolen pieces? Anything through the grapevine?”
Meg hears a lot of gossip. She knows almost everything that goes on in our line of work, so I’m shocked when she shakes her head. “No, nothing I’ve seen. Why?”
“Just curious,” I mumble, gnawing on my cheek. Maybe the piece hasn’t been listed yet, or maybe it’s a private sale. “If you get anything, let me know. And have the new floor plans sent to me by this evening.”
She ties her hair up, oblivious to the pieces that fall back down around her neck. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I roll my eyes. Despite being in charge of this whole charade, I detest being called ‘boss’ . It makes me feel like the bad guy. Or some weird mafia dude. I know I technically have the felonies and everything, but I’m not bad .
I’m simply doing what I’ve learned to do best.
“Are you staying until tonight?” I ask.
Meg shakes her head. “No. I’ve got work to do, and I won’t focus here.”
“Wonder why,” Jensen says under his breath, staring at her.
She clenches her jaw. “You need to stop.”
“You need to leave, apparently.”
“You both need to get a grip.” I pull a pillow into my lap. “I thought you two were fine now.”
“Don’t try to understand it,” Meg says, so I don’t.
I open a new tab on my laptop and start researching Henry’s paintings. Despite the urge I had a few weeks ago, when I saw his face plastered everywhere regarding The Gallery, I haven’t stalked him. I think I deserve a medal for it, because I’ve wanted to. Badly.
The first piece I see is Nautical Abyss. No shock, obviously. I’m very aware that I’ll be ripping it off the wall tonight.
But the second one, that’s what catches me off guard.
I’m staring at a photo of my favorite piece in the gallery. The flower made of words. I can still see my name, even on my tiny, grainy screen.
It’s called Fleur of Words.
Created by Henry Arlington.
I’m going to break my computer.
“Bye guys,” Meg says suddenly, already headed for the door. “Be back tonight.”
I mumble a goodbye as I continue clicking links regarding Henry, trying to find more about him. Things I don’t already know. All I learn is that he does commissioned work, more often than actually displaying in museums. The pieces in his exhibit are favorites. They draw a crowd. Every article I see is raving, practically worshiping him for his work, and my stomach churns as I read over the words.
Because I wanted him to make it. And something inside of me—albeit buried by aggravation—is glad he got what he wanted.
I just don’t want to hear about it.
“Whatcha doin?” Jensen asks, plopping down beside me on the couch.
I lower the laptop screen so he can’t see. I want to explain before he further deems me a stalker. “I have something to ask you.”
He raises a brow. “Is there a reason you waited for Meg to leave?”
“Probably because she’s feisty and wants your head on a stick right now.”
“Fair,” he murmurs, sitting up. “What is it?”
I chew on my lip, dig my nails into my palm. “I’m afraid I’m…being blackmailed.”
He blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Remember Henry Arlington? I spoke of him yesterday.”
“Yes, my memory goes that far back.”
I huff and open my screen up a little, not that it really matters. “Well. He found me this morning while you were gone. He wants me to help find a stolen painting.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know.”
“What if it’s one we stole?”
I shake my head. “It’s not. It was taken yesterday from his studio.”
Jensen sighs. “Why do we have to do this?”
“Because, again, he’s blackmailing me. He has footage of me in the museum. I think it was the night we stole Last Goodbye. ”
“Why do you assume it was then?”
“The door was unlocked that night, remember?” I shrug. “He must’ve been the one inside.”
Jensen groans. He’s always hated me for being so careless, and I used to say he was being paranoid, but now he’s got reason. That night, I just went in an open door. I was on my period—more argumentative than usual—and I didn’t feel like going along with Meg’s plan. It worked, until apparently, it didn’t.
“Why would he be there, though?” Jensen asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, why didn’t he just go to the police?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions,” I say, “and I don’t have answers. I don’t know .”
There’s a heavy pause, followed by an eye roll. “I guess we’re going to do it?”
“I really don’t think we have a choice,” I admit. “But it’ll be easy, right? We’re smart. We can help him out, then drop it for good.”
My tone is confident, but I know that won’t be the case. You can’t do something like this and never cross paths again. Something will always be tangled up, whether it be evidence, contact, or a shot at working together in the future. What if he gets another piece stolen and comes to us for help? I can’t commit to something like that. It’s not what I do.
But the fixer part of my brain, it wants to do this, because it knows that I can. It probably won’t be all that difficult.
Jensen finally shrugs, and I take that as his response. “Meg is the deciding factor here. She’s got the resources.”
“I know. That’s what I told him. I said it would be all of us, not just me.”
“You’ll do the communications.” Jensen pats my shoulder. “I don’t want to talk to him.”
“What makes you think I do?” I ask, wondering if I’ve somehow given something away. I don’t want to give anything away. I have nothing to give away!
“You probably don’t,” he says, “but you’re the one who went through that door.”
And I’ll never regret anything more.
“I dated him,” I say quietly. “Henry. I dated him in high school.”
“I know,” he says.
I blink. “How? I never told you.”
“I’m very good at drawing conclusions,” he says, and that’s true. He is. I’ve probably talked about Henry more than I realize, which makes me feel a little embarrassed. I don’t want Jensen thinking I’m doing this because of that. Any positive emotion I had for Henry left when he did.
“Also,” Jen says, “I’ve gathered that you hate him. Just a little.”
I bark a laugh. “More than a little.”
And I mean it. Henry is my nemesis, whether he knows it or not. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for leaving me . I hate that I ever missed him, and I hate him more for showing back up and looking like that .
Jensen takes the laptop from me and starts scrolling through my tabs. I turn on the TV and kick my feet up on the coffee table, thankful that I can direct my attention toward something else. I don’t like thinking about Henry. That’s not where my focus should be right now.
“Hey,” Jensen says suddenly, turning the laptop toward me. “Look at this.”
I squint. He’s got a multitude of windows open, so it takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at, but when I do, my face drops.
It’s right there on the screen. The headline is in bold letters.
HENRY ARLINGTON, SON OF ROMAN ARLINGTON, IS NEW FEATURED ARTIST AT THE GALLERY
“Roman Arlington owns the gallery,” Jensen explains. “This article is dated about a month back.”
I raise my brows. I pay very little attention to the men in charge of these things, but this…this is gold.
“That’s how Henry caught me,” I say. “Because his dad owns the place.”
Jensen frowns. “You didn’t know?”
“We never talked much about our parents.” An understatement. “Does that mean you’re in?”
He sighs before bookmarking the tab. “Sure. But we’ll have to get Meg on board.”
“I know,” I say, aware that getting her to agree will be harder than most of this.
But it could be easy, this charade. Maybe it won’t be so horrid. We could be off the hook within the week, and Henry will have his piece, and I’ll never have to see his stupid pretty face again.
As long as Meg agrees.