20. Amelie
20
AMELIE
My shoes are sticking to the floor, and it’s almost enough for me to call this whole thing off.
I don’t, though, because I’m a professional. I set my drink on the bar near a pretty blonde girl and sneak to the back. There’s no one here—not even a line for the bathroom, which is shocking. I’m sure it’s because it’s still early. In five minutes, the stalls will be more crowded than the dance floor.
A back room is very little to go off of when doing something like this. The kitchen is to my left, and the restrooms are to my right, but I don’t see another door aside from the kitchen. Employees are packed in there — I hear voices and spatulas scraping on pans, accompanied by dishware clinking against itself. My stomach tightens with nerves.
I’m going to smell like grease after this. But I suppose it’s a sacrifice I’ll have to make.
The first step when talking your way into a room is to be calm. Confident. To act like you’re supposed to be there. No one in this kitchen will think I’m supposed to be here, but hopefully, I can act relaxed enough that they won’t throw me out.
The clanging dishes get louder when I open the door. Words are tossed around, all varieties of drinks and foods to be made. One of the men is yelling about mayonnaise, and another is tossing around a knife. And yes—he is actually tossing it. In the air.
I no longer feel calm, nor confident.
“You can’t be back here,” says the chef, finally noticing me. I’m suddenly more worried about the fact that he’s not wearing a hairnet over his long hair or his beard, but I’m not here to critique. I wouldn’t eat this food if I were paid to.
“There was a spill out front.” I stand a little straighter. Don’t slouch. “A bad one. It’s a hazard, and no one else is taking care of it.”
If the painting isn’t in a janitor’s closet, I’m going to lose my everloving mind.
Another one of the men looks at me curiously. He crosses his arms and squints in my direction, trying to decide whether or not I’m lying. He’ll never figure it out—my face is trained so well, I might as well have Botox.
“Down that staircase. Hang a right, should be a closet,” he says, giving me a toothy smile. It makes me want to scratch my skin off. “Be back in a second, or I’ll come back there and find you.”
Oh. Ew. Okay.
“It’ll take no time at all,” I say, voice perky. I can practically feel every pair of eyes on me as I cross the room, and I shudder.
The ‘staircase’ is small. Four steps. I go right, which puts me in the mouth of a very small alcove. Three separate doors greet me, and they’re all identical.
Because of course they won’t make this easy for me.
“Why don’t you tell me which door?” I say, forcing my tone to stay light.
A low laugh follows my question. “One on the left. Should be unlocked.”
I don’t try that one because I don’t trust him. Instead, I go for the middle. The squeaky handle turns, and I step in cautiously, hoping the men can’t see me.
I find myself inside a walk-in freezer. There are multiple stacks of frozen foods; fries and meats and milk crates filled with onions. They’re the same items from the photo, but I see no painting.
Maybe it’s the wrong room. Maybe this isn’t over.
I take a breath and try the door that the man said. It opens as well, and I force myself inside. For being a janitor’s closet, it is disgusting. Puddles of liquid pool on the floor, and I have absolutely no desire to know what it is.
My heart stops when I glance around the room.
Against one wall rests a mop.
Against the opposite, milk crates and a painting.
But it isn’t Henry’s Ophelia.
No, it’s Nautical Abyss. The painting taken from me just days ago.
“What?” I whisper to myself, stepping closer to the piece. It’s real. It’s Nautical Abyss. Henry’s pristine signature is at the base, and my eyes single in on the person in the ocean, swimming toward their doom.
It’s here. Right in front of me.
And Ophelia is nowhere to be found.
“Did you find the mop?” Asks a deep voice from outside the room. I can’t tell if they’ve come any closer, but I don’t have time to worry about it.
“Got it,” I say, frantically looking around for a window. “Just…trying to find a bucket.”
“I can help you with that,” the man drawls.
I grab the mop, for a weapon if nothing else. “No! No, I’ve got it. Just give me a moment. I need to collect myself.”
“…Over a bucket?”
“ Yes !” I cry, hoping it’s dramatic enough to deter him.
There’s a window near the ceiling, but it looks too small for the painting to fit through. I should’ve measured from the outside, but I didn’t, because I knew the Ophelia would fit. That thing is half the size of this one.
A deep chuckle floods my ears, and I roll my eyes. “You’ve got about ten seconds, sugar, before I come find it myself.”
Ugh. I hope he spills hot oil on himself.
Instead of responding, I brace myself against the painting and hold it up to the window. It fits— barely. The edges will no doubt be scraped against the window frame, but that’s not so big of a deal. It’ll have to be okay.
“I’m coming!” I squeak, right before I close the door and wedge a serving cart under the handle. It looks weak—like a single push will move it. There’s a damaged wine cooler in the corner, so I push it next to the cart. I even jam my lockpick between the latch and the doorframe, though I know it won’t do anything. None of this will keep those men out of here for long.
So I grab the mop, and I shove it through the window.
Glass falls everywhere. The men must hear it because they come running into the hall. They’re shouting and banging on the door, and I’m just trying to sweep the jagged shards away from the window frame so I don’t bleed out in the van.
“ HELLO ?!” I scream out into the night. In seconds, Jensen appears outside, crouched down by the opening. I’m glad he and Meg figured out where this room was, because I’d be totally screwed otherwise.
Without a word, Jen takes the painting from me and guides it through the window, managing to load it in the van before I can catch my breath. Meanwhile, I’m trying to stack some milk crates so I can just climb out instead of facing the angry men.
Jensen reaches in to help me, but he shrinks back when the glass cuts into his forearms. He grunts and removes his left shoe, using the sole to clear more glass. It’s mostly pointless. The shards fall in random directions, raining around me, so I take a step back and peek at my barricade.
The serving cart has moved, I notice. Probably from the pounding on the door. I’m shocked that the wine cooler is actually helping me out—I think it’s the only reason the men haven’t gotten in and murdered me yet.
“Amelie, I can’t get you through here,” Jen says quietly, frantically. “You’ll get sliced up.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I’m not pulling you through there.”
I ignore him and stand on three wobbly milk crates. There’s nothing for me to grab onto, so I try to get some traction on the concrete outside, but that makes it worse. The glass digs into my arm, and I bite back the scream that claws at my throat. Fire shoots through my wrists as I shake them out, trying to free the loose shards embedded in my flesh.
But I try again, because I don’t know what else to do.
And again, of course, my fingers slip, causing more glass to dig into my skin.
“Stop it,” Jensen yells. “ Stop. ”
“Jen, please.” I shake my head, hair falling into my eyes. “Those men are going to kill me back here, or worse. Let me try.”
“ No . I’ll come inside.” He stands up. “I’ll get them away. Just give me?—”
He stops talking. I stop listening. Because someone outside either throws themselves against the door, or they fall against it. The shouting stops, and faint words are passed back and forth.
And then I hear what sounds like a fist hitting something.
Not the wall. More like a person.
“Jen,” I say quietly, my eyes stinging. “I don’t like this.”
“I’ll come around,” he says again. “Just tell me what to?—”
Another loud thud echoes from the hall. This time, I drop my arms from the window and close my eyes. They’re going to get in. The wine cooler is knocked away from the door now—only a few inches, but enough that they could move it the rest of the way. There’s no use in cutting my arms up worse. It’s?—
“ Ames .”
Henry.
It’s him. Henry is outside.
“Amelie, it’s me,” he says breathlessly, tugging at the door handle. “ Let me in .”
I nearly topple off the milk crates and run toward his voice. My hands are trembling as I retrieve my lockpick and shove everything away from the door. Henry opens it the rest of the way and steps inside, and his eyes go directly to the storm of glass behind me. He lets out a humorless laugh, one that’s sealed by the blank look in his eyes. “I thought this was going to go smoothly.”
“That was your assumption,” I say, noting how shaky my voice is. I swallow hard, trying to stop my adrenaline from literally exploding my heart, but that becomes my last concern when I see Henry’s hand.
“Oh,” I mumble, taking his fingers and lifting them up to see. His knuckles are all messed up—bloody and torn, already beginning to bruise. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t respond. At first, I think he’s angry with me, but then I realize where his gaze is.
It’s on my arms. On the blood that’s soaked through my torn sleeves. He grabs my wrist and flips my arm over, pulling the sleeve of my shirt up the slightest bit. I gasp when his finger brushes one of the cuts, and I swear his eyes narrow further. “Did they do this?”
“No,” I say, pulling my arm away. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t agree in the slightest, but he knows not to argue. Not here, anyways. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
I look up at him. “What did you do with them?”
“They aren’t dead, if that’s what you’re asking.” He stops by the door, waiting for me to leave, but I glance once more at the broken window. There’s no sign of Jensen—I’d bet that he left the second Henry entered the room, satisfied that I was safe enough with him. I don’t know how to feel about that, and I don’t know why it’s what I’m focusing on right now, especially when I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyeballs.
“Amelie,” Henry says firmly, drawing my attention back to him. “We need to go.”
I nod and step out into the awkward hallway. Henry is on my heels as we bolt toward the exit, and I notice that the men are nowhere in sight.
It takes us a while to get outside because of how many people there are. Someone steps on my foot, and someone else manages to drive their elbow into my back, but I keep a quick pace. Henry is basically racing toward the exit, but it still doesn’t feel fast enough.
Cold air hits my arms as soon as we step outside, and I yank my jacket away from Henry. It stings, the leather against the cuts, but I don’t care. Nothing is more important to me right now than getting home.
“What was that?” He finally asks, completely out of breath. “Are you okay?”
No. “I’m fine.”
He sniffs. “Did we get it, then? The piece? Or was it all for nothing?”
I clench my jaw. A very large, very petty part of me wants to be annoyed that he’s even asking right now, but I know he’s doing it for me. He knows I don’t want to explain what happened. What went wrong. How I ended up with blood on me.
So what do I tell him? It wasn’t technically for nothing, but there’s no benefit to him. All we found is something that will help me, and it feels wrong. I feel so wrong about selling his painting now. He did just keep me from getting potentially murdered, after all.
But also, why did he let me go that night in the museum? Why didn’t he just snag the piece then? I can’t stop thinking about it. Henry knew exactly what I was doing, and he didn’t stop me. He didn’t even seem to care.
I hate it. I hate all of this. I just want to sleep.
“Ames?”
I swallow, suddenly aware that I haven’t spoken for quite some time. “Hm?”
“Did we, or did we not get the piece?”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Um, no, we didn’t get that one.”
He blinks. “You got another?”
“One I’ve been looking for, yeah.”
“They lied and swapped them out?”
I bite my lip. “Something like that.”
“So my piece is just…gone.”
“It’s not gone,” I tell him. “You’re being messed with, Henry. We’re being messed with, but I’ll figure it out. Promise.”
He sighs, pockets his hands. I have the urge to free the right one and see if the bruising is worse, but I don’t. “We’re running low on time,” he says.
I nod. “I know. I’m doing my best.”
“I know you are,” he returns. “But it isn’t enough.”
I don’t let that go to my conscience. Not like it wants to.
Neither Henry nor I say another word until we reach my apartment. He bids me a bland goodbye on the sidewalk and leaves. I don’t bother saying anything back.
Jen and Meg, despite having the vehicle, aren’t home yet. I assume they’re unloading the piece, or at least hiding the van, but it’s fine. I’m glad to be alone right now. I go to my bathroom and try to clean my arms, which ends up being a feat. Apparently, there are tiny shards of glass residing in my arms, so I try to remove them with a pair of tweezers. It hurts, bad—I pinch my skin a million times, and the cold metal does nothing to help, but eventually, I decide the cuts are clean enough.
I turn the shower on full heat and take my clothes off. I feel disgusting. I smell disgusting. I want this water to burn me until I feel clean. The steam stings my skin, but I ease myself under the literal stream of fire and stand there for a good while. I don’t even move. I just think.
Henry saved me tonight. Whether or not it was a big deal to him, it was to me. I didn’t have a good way out of that situation, and I was terrified. No close call has compared to that…ever.
But he didn’t know that. He didn’t know what was going on, only that something was wrong. And I don’t know why he cares. I don’t know why he’s still working with me or why he won’t just hand me over to the police and put us both out of our misery.
I do know one thing, though.
After I get rid of Nautical Abyss, I am never taking another piece of his art again.