8. Amelie
8
AMELIE
“No.” Meg slams a stack of papers onto my kitchen table. “We cannot do that. Are you guys insane? Like, I’m seriously asking.”
“We’re optimistic,” Jensen corrects. “And come on. This guy has proof. He could get us in trouble.”
She shrugs. “I look good in orange.”
“ Nobody looks good in orange!” I sigh. “Meg, please.”
“It won’t end well.”
I roll my eyes. She isn’t wrong, but we don’t have time to argue. We’ve got about an hour until the sun goes down, which leaves us even less time to go over these floor plans and get to the museum. I was sort of hoping that it would be an open and shut thing, as in, Meg would blindly agree with us, but that didn’t happen. I’ve never seen her so against something. Except for when Jensen got frosted tips last summer—we were all against that.
“We don’t have much of a choice, Meg.” I pick up the stack of papers and start sorting them into piles. “I’ll do the back-and-forth. The dirty work. I just need you to find the thing, then tell me where it is.”
She huffs. “Can we worry about this later? Like, I don’t think it’s our main focus right now.”
“Our focus is staying out of jail, but sure! Sure, Meg.” Jensen flicks her forehead. She elbows him square in the chest.
I set the last of the papers down and grab a red pen. “Okay. Pay attention. We’re going in through…” I squint at a mark Meg has already drawn. “The maintenance closet window ? Why does a closet have a window?”
“Don’t question it, just be grateful.” Jensen leans against the table and takes the pen from me, drawing a big X over the painting’s location. “You know exactly where this is?”
I nod. “Without a doubt. It’ll be easy.”
“And Meg’s driving?”
“As always, yes,” she responds. “I’ll be out back. The painting won’t fit through the maintenance closet, so you’ll have to break a different window. There’s one near the alley. We’ll be out of there before anyone shows.”
I drum my hands on the table, skin tingling with something like excitement. “What about the cameras?”
“Disabled them before I came over here,” she says with a nod.
“Good. So we’re ready?”
“I’m ready,” Jen says. “Your uniform is on the bed.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, twisting my hair into a bun.
Yesterday, when Jen was out for groceries, he also snagged two janitor’s uniforms for us to wear over our clothes. We’ve used this tactic before, but this time, the uniforms don’t smell like rotting garbage. I slide the jumpsuit over my leggings and bra, buttoning all but the top one at my neck. I put on a pair of sneakers that aren’t obnoxiously loud and tuck a pair of nylon gloves into my pocket. The uniforms come with hats, but I don’t want lice, so I veto it.
We’re out the door and in the van by seven.
Our little vehicle is maybe the least discreet thing I can imagine. The outside is rusted orange, with 70s flowers painted all over it. Even the inside has retro seat covers and dash décor. It’s basically equivalent to the Mystery Machine. I think the only reason we haven’t gotten caught in the thing is because Meg drives like a madwoman away from the scene.
“How big is this painting?” Jen asks, pulling his gloves on.
Meg hums. “At least seventy inches wide, if I remember correctly.”
“You’re gonna have to have the van doors open.”
“I’ve never failed that task before,” she snaps, turning sharply onto the road.
I hold my breath as The Gallery comes into view. Meg drives close to the sidewalk, stopping a few blocks away from the building. “I’ll circle around,” she says. “Back in a few. Remember: window in the maintenance closet. It opens. Do not break that one.”
“Got it,” I say, tugging my gloves on as I exit the vehicle. Jen is on my heels, closing the van door as quietly as he can.
We reach the museum and find the correct window with ease. It’s small—small enough that I’m actually worried we won’t fit through it. Jen wrenches it open with the file in his pocket and lifts me up, pushing me through head-first. I bite back a scream as I land, my hands breaking my fall as I balance into a poorly formed handstand. When I’m on my feet again, I help guide Jensen through the window. His entry isn’t as smooth as mine, but it’s quiet.
We’re surrounded by vacuums and cleaning products. Bottles of floor cleaner are lined up on a shelf, and nasty, oil-ridden rags lay on the ground. Jensen nearly knocks a jar off the shelf, but I grab his arm and yank him away before it can clatter to the ground.
“Let’s not cause any unnecessary damage,” I mutter, opening the closet door. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness before peeking down the hall. It’s completely empty, save for a flickering dome light. The rest of the place is lit solely by the moon.
“To the left,” Jensen says, and I nod. We walk quietly, our shoes all but squeaking on the waxed tile. I keep my eyes forward and hang close to the wall.
“I see it,” I whisper, pointing ahead. Nautical Abyss is a few feet away, hung right under an AC vent. I squint to read the information plaque beneath it once we’re close enough. My eyes practically magnetize to Henry’s name, and something bitter starts clawing its way up my throat.
I blink. Good lord, is that guilt? That won’t work.
“That’s horrifying,” Jen states, staring at the painting.
I laugh. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Have you considered that your blackmailer-slash-ex might be crazy? Why would he paint someone that is so obviously going to die ?”
“He was always a little moody,” I admit.
“Odd.” Jensen pulls his file back out and begins working on the edges of the painting. One thing we learned early on is that paintings aren’t simply hung —most are stuck to the wall all the way around the perimeter. I don’t know why, I just know that it’s a pain.
Using my file, I start at the opposite edge. The hardest part about this is trying not to chip the paint on the wall. It’s obviously clear that the painting is gone , but it’s best to leave no further damage. I wedge my file behind the canvas and start slicing upward, hoping this one will be light work.
“Do you think Meg’ll come around?” I ask Jen, hoping if we talk, we’ll work quicker. “About Henry.”
He grunts. “Maybe. You act like we don’t have a choice, so I’m sure she won’t defy you.”
“You make me sound like a dictator.”
He snorts, and I hear a loud pop. His edge is freed.
“Come help me,” I say, nodding toward the painting. “This side won’t come loose.”
“You’re just weak,” he grumbles.
I raise my brows. Pocket my file. “Just for that, you can do it yourself.”
“Fine. I do it better, anyways.”
“Mhm.” I pull out my phone and snap a photo of Jen. He freezes when the flash goes off, looking eerily similar to a deer in headlights. “I’ll send these to Meg for you.”
“Do my arms look good?”
“They look like arms.”
“Do they look like good arms?”
“THEY LOOK LIKE ARMS, JENSEN,” I whisper-hiss. “I don’t know what a good arm is! That makes no sense.”
“Never mind,” he sighs. I hear another loud pop, and he tugs his file out from behind the canvas. “Help me get the top off.”
I dig my fingers behind the frame. It chips the paint as it leaves the wall, so we make quick work of the bottom. My fingers are tingling when it’s finally loose, and Jensen grabs his edge before it drops to the ground.
“Let’s hurry,” he says, and he says something after that but I don’t catch it.
I hear something. There’s noise coming from somewhere in this building.
“Jenny,” I say, trying to shut him up.
“Like, honestly, if Meg ever ran a red light, we’d be?—”
“ Jensen .”
He quiets down and suddenly, the noise is louder.
Footsteps.
All my nerve endings light on fire, because my first thought is, Henry is going to catch me again . I don’t think it’s him, though. There are multiple pairs of feet coming toward us—it isn’t just one person.
“Move, Amelie,” Jensen urges, nodding toward the hallway. “Come on.”
But I don’t know which way to go. Meg said the back, but I think the noise is coming from that direction and I don’t want to go toward it. That seems incredibly foolish.
“ Ames ,” Jensen says firmly. “We have to go.”
“You take it,” I say numbly, looking back over my shoulder. “Can you lift the whole thing?”
“I can, but?—”
“I’m going to lead them somewhere else. Find the back door.”
“Amelie—”
“Find it,” I repeat, letting go of the painting. Jensen grunts as he takes its full weight, and I, against my better judgment, barrel straight toward the lobby.