13. Amelie
13
AMELIE
I should’ve expected Henry’s apartment building to look like something out of a movie.
It’s ridiculous. A downtown skyrise with a ridiculous number of floors. Every time I passed this building on a walk, I imagined snooty businessmen with unhappy wives were living here. Now I know it’s inhabited by annoying artists with strange coping tactics.
If I’d really cared to dig back into the past, it wouldn’t have been much of a shock. Henry’s family had the nicest house of anyone I knew. That, too, looked like a movie set, albeit more cluttered. There was no shortage of photos and newspapers on any flat surface.
It’s always been strange to me that I so vividly remember his home. That I can clearly recall the pictures of his and Lizzy’s first days of school, or the childhood dog whose frame rests on their mantle. I only visited there once or twice, both times because his parents were gone. He said that he and his sister weren’t allowed to have friends over. I never cared enough to question it, though now, I realize how odd it is.
I shouldn’t be thinking back on that, especially not while I’m next to him. But I’m brave enough to admit that, no matter how much I’ve hated Henry through the years, I’ve missed him and his sister.
Liz was one of my best friends, though I didn’t have many to pick from back then. She was an angel sent to grace this horrible planet. I can think of multiple times she helped me out, whether it was getting me ready for my prom or lending me jewelry and a pair of shoes for a night out.
I grimace at the memory. It’s too fond. Too tender. I wish that I hadn’t lost her when I lost Henry, though I guess it couldn’t be helped.
I shake my head, trying to forget all of that. What happened, happened. My preferred outcome may have been something different, but I can’t change the past.
“You know,” I say to Henry as he opens the building’s door for me. “I was picturing a studio. Like a studio. Because you said it was a studio.”
This is not a studio. This, again, is a high rise, and I’m quite sure he’s taking me to the penthouse. They’ve got a doorman, for goodness sakes, and he has a snazzy hat with gold detailing.
Henry sighs as we get in the elevator, then sticks his key into the top button. As I figured. “Repeating the word over and over again doesn’t alter the meaning.”
“Mmm, yeah it does.”
“This is my studio.”
“No, it’s a penthouse.”
“Same thing.”
“Uh, no, misinformation .”
He glares at me from the corner of his eye. I stare back, if only to try and read his expression, but I’m realizing that I can’t do that anymore. Used to, I could read him like a book, and now, he’s guarded toward me.
I don’t know why that makes me feel a little down.
“This is my apartment,” he says once the elevator stops. “My studio is a separate room in said apartment. Locked.”
“So they know where you live.”
He shrugs. “Or they got lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“I once didn’t believe in gravity,” he says, “but then I fell down a flight of stairs.”
“You’re just full of personality today.”
He starts to grin, and from him, that’s as good as a full-blown fit of laughter.
Henry finds a key on his lanyard and unlocks a white door, and I nearly gasp when I catch a glimpse of the room behind it. It’s massive. That’s the best way to explain it. There’s an entire glass wall that looks out over the city. The furniture looks untouched. A nearly full bookcase rests against the far wall, and I have the urge to go see what titles fill the shelves.
It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.
I genuinely cannot believe I’m standing here.
Simply getting here was a total shock. I put the offer out just to annoy Henry. I didn’t expect him to take me up on it, and if he did, I wasn’t planning on coming. But when I really thought about it…
I’m nosey, okay? Extremely nosey. Part of it is because I think he’s hiding a body or something weird, and the other part is because I want to see what his house looks like. Sue me.
“Home sweet home,” Henry says flatly, closing the door behind us. He taps my right shoulder and tugs at the back of my collar, so I shrug my coat off for him to take. It’s a reflex, almost second nature, and I don’t even catch how strange it is until he’s got the thing off me.
Why did I do that? If anyone else came up behind me and started pulling at my coat, I’d elbow them in the sternum. Why didn’t I take the shot at him?
He used to do that, I remember, going rigid at the memory. All the time.
He did. I’d completely forgotten about that.
Any time I was wearing a coat, Henry would do exactly what he just did. He’d flick my shoulder and hook a finger in my collar, tugging gently until I took it off. In the time that we dated, I don’t think I ever once dealt with my own coat. No matter if it was at a party, or restaurant, or school event, he’d take it from me, only to put it back on before we left.
I frown, suddenly wishing I’d just stayed with Meg and Jensen. I’ve been alone with Henry for about twenty minutes, and I’ve already had too many memories stirred up.
“You can look around,” Henry says, hanging my coat next to his.
I hum. “I’m shocked you trust me here.”
“I don’t think you’re going to steal my kitchen counter, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I’m just saying.” I cross my arms and glance around. The room, while fully furnished, feels very empty. It’s like no one has actually lived here. I have the urge to bring over some throw blankets and jump on the cushions just to dent them. “Where’s the studio?”
“Down this hall.”
I hear rather than see him walking away, so I turn and follow, peeking into random opened doors as I do. To the left lies an untouched bedroom and bathroom, which I assume is the guest room. To the right is what looks like a storage closet, though I know better than to ask. We stop at the end of the hall, right in front of a cracked door. Henry pushes it open with a heavy sigh. “I kindly ask you to never discuss what you see here.”
“Is there a corpse,” I deadpan.
He doesn’t respond, nor does he enter the room. His stance is almost nervous, the way he’s turned away from me, hands fidgeting with the buttons on his coat. I quickly get tired of waiting and just go around him.
It looks exactly as I expected.
The entire thing is packed full of canvases and easels and paints. Colors are smeared on the wall and spilled on the floor, and it smells like acrylic. It’s as comforting as it is aggravating, and yet, I don’t have the urge to leave.
I figured the living room wasn’t lived in, and I was right. I think Henry lives in his studio more than anything else.
“Wow,” I breathe. “You’re still messy.”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
“Do you have any finished pieces?” It’s a square room, and I only see one other door. I don’t think he can have much hidden, especially with how big his paintings seem to be, but I feel like I have to ask.
“Not here,” Henry says. “I do a lot of commissioned work. When they’re done, I either sell or display them.”
“Huh,” I say, then accidentally step on a paintbrush. The handle splinters underneath my foot, but he doesn’t comment on it. To be fair, he shouldn’t have left it on the floor.
“I would say ‘take a seat’, but I’m not sure I have real chairs in here,” Henry says, almost shyly. “I’m never really sitting.”
“I know,” I say, hating the response even though it’s true. “You never were.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he doesn’t end up saying a thing.
I find a wooden crate and plant my butt on it. Henry lifts a fresh canvas onto an easel and tears the plastic covering off, letting it fall to the ground.
“What are you thinking?” He asks, sketching lightly on the canvas with a paint covered pencil. “What should I do?”
I blink, caught off guard. “I don’t mess with painting anymore.”
“No, you do, just in a different way. Don’t you know what thieves look for?”
“No. We go by request. I don’t curate a catalog for buyers to flip through.”
“Ah,” he says, and it feels a little condescending, though I’m probably just overthinking it. “Well, then.”
“Well, then,” I repeat, leaning forward on my uncomfy crate.
Henry exhales, eyes glued to the canvas. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that my dad owns the museum?”
Huh . We’re getting right into this, then. Do I want him to know that I know? Lying seems pointless; it’s clear that he already knows, or else he wouldn’t ask. I must’ve mentioned it. Given it away somehow. Or he’s become a psychic since I saw him last.
“Yes,” I say cautiously. “He bought this place for you, I assume?”
A shake of his head. “He owns the building.”
I file that away for later. His father must know the tenants, then, and Henry’s painting was likely taken by someone who knows their way around this place. Anyone mildly observant could see which floor he goes to. This isn’t as black-and-white as I expected it to be, and it’s already getting on my nerves.
“Do you suspect anyone?” I ask. “Any mortal enemies, occupational competitors, salty exes…”
He laughs, and I close my eyes against the sound. That last question is a cheap shot—he knows it, I know it. But I don’t even care. I’m not above petty questions. So what if I want to know if he’s had a few girlfriends? It’s been four years. I’m sure he has, and at least one must have a vendetta against him. He’s quite aggravating.
“No,” Henry says, squinting at the floor. “I try to keep as few salty exes as possible. They tend to make my life difficult.”
He glances over at me, a not-so-subtle grin on his face, and I look away.
“It makes it easier if you have suspects,” I say. “You should at least have a guess on who took it.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. If I had a guess, I wouldn’t have asked for your help.”
I hum and lean forward. “But you never suspected me.”
A pause. “No.”
“That’s very foolish of you.”
“I know.”
He goes back to sketching, and I go back to praying I don’t get a splinter in my thigh.
“What do you like to paint now?” I ask.
Henry pins me with a blank expression. I think he wants me to be quiet—he doesn’t like company while he paints, but I’m not going to shut up. This situation is making me chattier than usual. “You know what I like to paint.”
I shake my head. “I said now. I know what you painted four years ago.”
“The same.”
“The same ?”
“Yes.”
I blink. “You haven’t evolved at all.”
“No,” he says. “I’m the same.”
“That seems unrealistic.”
“Why? I’ve always painted the same things. The things I care about. Things I want to preserve.” He shrugs. “You’re the one who’s changed.”
Instead of arguing, as I so naturally want to do, I stand and walk toward him. Whatever he’s drawing looks like nothing more than random squiggles, though I’m sure there’s meaning to him. He says this piece won’t be personal, but I know that’s not the truth. He’s never been able to separate himself from his art.
Henry sighs. “You’re evaluating.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Hm.” He crosses his arms. “You ever paint anymore?”
And this is where he strikes a nerve.
“No,” I say flatly. “I don’t.”
I feel his eyes on me as he asks, “Not at all?”
“New topic.”
“I just?—”
“New. Topic.”
He turns away. “Alright. What do you think of this sketch?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see anything but lines.” I squint. “And a duck. Why did you draw a duck.”
Henry frowns as he looks back at the canvas. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s a duck.” I motion to the center of the sketch. “Right here.”
“That’s not a duck.”
“Well it looks like a duck, and you?—”
I shut my mouth when I hear a scratching noise at the door. My entire body freezes, and my heart starts trying to beat its way out of my chest.
A trap.
This is a trap, one that I walked right into. One that I set in motion by inviting myself over here. How can I possibly be this much of a failure? I should’ve just gone home.
Maybe in the future I won’t be so nosey. But also, I’ll be in jail. So.
The cops are outside the door by now, I’m sure. Handcuffs open and ready to slide onto my wrists. I can practically hear their voices as they read me my rights, which probably won’t come in that handy, but?—
“Betty!” Henry’s words carry his smile, and I nearly choke at his change of composure.
“I’m sorry ?”
“That’s Betty.” He opens the door, and I actually choke this time from how hard I gasp.
A small black cat trots through the room, meowing every so often in my direction. Probably because I’m hacking on my own spit.
“I LOVE HER!” I croak through my blocked airways. Betty meows at me again, so I drop to my knees and pet her. She rubs against my hip before plopping down on my thighs.
“That’s Betty,” Henry says again. “She’s my cat.”
I look up at him with wide eyes. “You hate cats.”
He nods. “Detest them. Yes.”
“So why would you get a cat?”
“Because Betty isn’t a cat. Betty is Betty. She’s a good cat.”
“She’s a perfect angel,” I correct, scratching her behind the ears. She purrs even louder, and I start calculating how much I can spend on a cat that isn’t mine before it gets concerning. She needs a wardrobe. A collar with a little bell, or a bow, or even a flower! The possibilities are endless.
“You’re planning to buy her an outfit,” Henry says knowingly.
I sit up a little straighter. “No. Absolutely not.”
“I can practically see the gears turning in your mind.”
“Irrelevant.”
He chuckles, and the sound startles me so much that I make it my mission to never hear it again.
I set the cat down and get back on my feet. In the short time I was distracted, Henry slathered half the canvas with a deep blue paint, some of it dripping down onto the floor.
“That’s why this place is so messy, then,” I say.
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“Have you turned into one of those crazy artists yet? The ones on the brink of insanity with every passing day? Please let me know so I can take Betty home with me and spoil her silly.”
Henry stifles a laugh. “No. I don’t think so, anyways.”
“Good.”
“Though it’s never impossible. Will we ever be aware that we’re on the brink of insanity? Or will it just overtake us on a random day?”
I snort. “Don’t start. Not today.”
“If not now, then when?”
“You need to stop.”
“I need to focus, actually.” He grabs a smaller brush and starts cleaning up the base. “I want this done quickly.”
Before I can respond, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I whip it out to find half a dozen messages littered across my screen, and my eyes dart over the words at lightning speed.
Megan
Found the listing for Harvey’s piece
No location
Call me
Like now please
My eyes hurt from staring at this screen
I vow to teach her how to text a full paragraph later, then dial her number. When she picks up, the first thing I say is, “What’s wrong?”
“No location,” she repeats, just as I get another message from her. I put the call on speaker and click the link she sent, which ends up being a photo of Henry’s piece. It’s simply the canvas and a brief size description. Nothing else. “There’s no contact, no name, nothing. It’s just a picture.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “It’s never just this. There’s always a way to find it. Maybe it’s cryptic?”
“I’ve done all I can to un- cryptify it,” Meg tells me. “I think it’s just a dead end.”
Just as I’m contemplating throwing my phone out the window, Henry steps closer and stares at the screen over my shoulder. “That’s my piece. You’re saying we can’t find it?”
“’Fraid not,” Meg says. “Not right now, at least. I’ll dig until I get it uncovered, but for now, keep working on the decoy.”
“Henry’s got it started, so I’ll come home now, I guess.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll see you guys soon.” I hang up my phone and turn to Henry, huffing so hard my hair blows away from my face. “Well, you heard her. Your painting is being held hostage in a shed, probably owned by a creepy old man.”
“It’ll be okay,” he says, and I have the sudden urge to smack him. He should be angrier about this than I am. “That’s the point of the decoy, right? To buy us some time. It’s not going to be easy.”
It was supposed to be easy. I thought once we found the listing, we’d be fine. Set up a fake meeting, get the guy to leave it, and give him a hefty amount of cash, per Henry’s pocket. But if we can’t even track the guy down, we have nothing. The photo is basically him dangling a carrot in front of our noses and forcing us to follow.
“I guess,” I mumble, instead of saying all that.
“Regardless, I had a productive day.” Henry motions to the canvas in front of him. He added more, just in the short time I was distracted. It’s only a mix of colors, but I swear I can see bodies and faces taking shape already. Or maybe I’m just being imaginative. “Might’ve gotten more done if you and Betty hadn’t been so loud, but y’know.”
“The angel and I did nothing.” I scoop the cat off the ground and hold her against my chest, fully aware that she’s not enjoying it. She’s purring, but it’s getting quieter and she’s swatting at the ends of my hair. I set her down before she makes me bleed, then turn to her owner. “I suppose you’ll need something else before long?”
“Possibly,” he says. “I’ll send a carrier pigeon if I need to reach you.”
I allow myself a singular, dry laugh.
Henry holds a paint covered hand out, and I stare at it blankly. “I feel like we’ve got to shake on it,” he explains.
I shake my head. “I don’t think we do.”
“Is this because I have paint on my hands?”
“Sort of,” I admit. And what about it? My sweater is pink. Do you understand how vividly indigo paint is going to show up on a pink sweater? I got this last week, half price. You couldn’t pry the thing away from me.
I wonder if I should explain this to Henry because he isn’t moving his hand away.
“For old time’s sake,” he says, and with that look on his face, I know he’s doing it to rattle me.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Sighing, I roll up my sleeve and grab his hand, giving it a firm shake. The feeling of his rough skin against mine is strange, distant, and I hate it. I wait for him to drop my hand, but he doesn’t, so I drop his instead. I find the rag he dried his brushes with and wipe the paint off my palm, then walk out the door without a word.
“Don’t forget your coat on the way out,” Henry calls as I leave.
And I’ll never admit it, but if he hadn’t said that, I would’ve forgotten.