34. Amelie
34
AMELIE
Margot and I have been at a standstill ever since Henry left to take that call.
Mom and Dad made a timely exit moments after, and Margot reluctantly sat next to me in Dad’s empty seat. I basically drained my coffee and hoped that she’d say something, but it was useless. She ate her breakfast and stared at the back door.
Why can’t we just be normal ? Would one conversation that isn’t strained kill us?
“Look, Margot,” I start. “We have to talk.”
“Why?” She pins me with gray eyes, a gaze that mirrors mine. “You don’t want to. I don’t want to. You know Mom will make it weird on Thursday, anyways. Let it go.”
“I just?—”
“Not now, Amelie.” She stands up and tosses her spoon into the sink, and I wince when it rattles around. “I have to go to town.”
“Okay,” I say, kicking at the base of my stool. “The roads aren’t great.”
“It’ll be fine.” She grabs a key fob off the counter and goes out the back door, making sure to slam it closed. I huff dramatically and slump over in my seat, laying my head on the cool marble countertop.
This is exactly how I expected this trip to go.
We don’t want to talk. We don’t want to fix things. Mom was the one who decided it was time, and I knew that, but I almost hoped that Margot planted the seed. I thought she might lay things down first, and I’d be able to read the situation without making it worse.
This whole rift is so old, I honestly don’t know if there’s any point in trying to break it. It’s stupid— so stupid, and the worst thing is, it started in high school. Four years of this, all because of what happened after we graduated. All because I used to love art.
I adored art.
I think the stories of my parents’ heists planted a desire in my mind. Learning about the paintings they stole drove me to learn more about art. About why people were so intent on having these pieces. What it meant to them. I wasn’t the best at painting—I was alright, but nowhere near as good as I wanted to be. But I planned to go to school for it. I wanted to learn and get better.
When it came time to apply to college, Henry and I talked about art schools. He encouraged me to go. Said I’d grow better if I took my time. I wasn’t good with technicalities; I liked to rush my paintings. I wanted the end results. The process was fun, but it didn’t mean as much to me.
So I applied. Eventually, near the end of our senior year, Henry and I were both accepted into the same school.
And so was Margot. She applied without telling anyone so it’d be a surprise.
And then my desire to go was quickly lost.
It’s a poor reason to change a path. I know that now, but I didn’t back then. The emotion that overwhelmed me felt like a pit. I saw no reason to try and climb out when I knew I couldn’t.
Margot outshined me at everything. I didn’t hate her for it, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. If it never changed the way I viewed her. I’d come home from school with a B on a test, and she’d have an A+. I’d get a callback for a play, and she’d get the lead. Even at school it was inescapable. Teachers would congratulate me on Margot’s accomplishments, only to recognize that I was Margot’s sister moments later.
For years, I wished we had different faces, just so I could be separated from her. So her victories and mine would not be seen as one.
I shouldn’t have let it hurt me the way I did. She was just living. Doing her own thing. But I still couldn’t help but think she was out for me. I admired everything she did, and yet, I wanted her to fail just once so I could come out on top.
It didn’t matter in the long run, though. I turned down the offer to the school. Told my family and Henry that it wasn’t going to work out, that it wasn’t the right path for me. They all still believe that lie, I think. Not a single one of them ever questioned me on it. They just told me that I’d find something better for me. And I planned to.
I knew I’d find something that Margot would never dream of doing, and I’d finally have what I wanted. To be good at something without the fear of her being better.
Margot left for school. She chose a different one out of state, but that didn’t sway me. I didn’t want to take the same road as her. I didn’t want to try for the same career as her, to be associated with her in any way.
And I’ll admit it—I was bitter toward her. I felt overlooked. My parents were proud of her for what she’d chosen, but in my head, she’d taken something from me that I was meant to have. Slowly, my bitterness turned into resentment, and I just stopped talking to her. I didn’t reach out, but she didn’t, either. Our connection snapped with hardly any pressure, so I told myself it was meant to be that way and tried to move on.
I put my focus into anything I could find. I helped my parents around the hall. Tried to focus on supporting Henry from afar. Almost every night, he’d call, and he’d tell me how things were going for him. How his pieces were getting attention. How he’d be back in November and kiss me like no time had passed.
But then, on a random Saturday, his calls stopped coming.
And the next week, mine went unreturned.
And then it just stopped altogether.
We hadn’t spoken since then until I saw him in the museum, and by that point…well, I’ve been in the same line of work since that year he didn’t come back. There’s no need for me to change my ways now, not when I’ve found something outside of him. Not when I used it to keep myself from breaking down at every turn.
I felt betrayed by Margot. Abandoned by Henry. Like I was a choice, the one that nobody wanted to pick. I felt overlooked by the only person who had never made me feel that way. Eventually, I realized that art had caused me more damage than good, and I wanted my love for it to vanish. But that wasn’t possible. You don’t just stop loving something because you tell yourself to. It isn’t a choice.
So I simply decided to work with it in a different way.
My work wasn’t revenge. I chose it for myself. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. Now, I realize that even that choice was influenced by the things around me. It might never have crossed my mind if I weren’t so terrified of being in Margot’s shadow. If I hadn’t felt like Henry left me for something he loved more.
I don’t regret it. Not at all.
But I won’t pretend that my skewed relationship with Margot is completely my fault. Even though it stems from my insecurities, there are still two sides to it. There’s still a nagging in the back of my head that reminds me how easily Margot let it go. How she never tried to contact me, either.
Still, I’d take the blame. I’d apologize and admit that I started this if it would just kill the tension.
But an apology would equal uprooting things that were left unsaid. And while I know that it needs to happen, I’m not looking forward to it. I’m not trying to further aggravate my sister; after all, she is aware of what I do, and I know that her secrecy isn’t because of me. It’s because of my parents. She loves them more than she loves herself, and so do I. If the cops found anything on me, they’d be close to my parents’ work. I run through their concert hall. We have the same patterns and clients. It’s too much.
But if Margot ever changed her mind, I wouldn’t be shocked. I wouldn’t even blame her, because if tables were turned, I can’t say how I’d react.
Meg, ever the therapist, says that’s why I don’t like things I can’t control. I couldn’t control Henry’s calls. I couldn’t control the way I was second to Margot. But I can control nearly everything when I’m working. It’s close to the wire—sometimes, the edge nicks me, but I’m still in charge.
Until Henry. He’s caught me twice, and I feel like my control has fully slipped away.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t think of anything I’ve ever hated as much as that.
As if on cue, Henry appears in the kitchen looking strangely tense. I’m waiting for him to sit down beside me and pour another cup of coffee, but he just stands, mouth open like he wants to say something.
“Hi,” I say after a beat.
“Can I talk to you?” He asks, motioning to the hallway. “In private?”
That’s not good. I don’t like that in the slightest.
“Yeah,” I say, slipping off the barstool. Anxiety pools in my stomach as I follow him to his room, and I can’t help but shuffle through the possibilities of what’s wrong in my mind. All I know is that his demeanor has changed since that phone call.
Henry closes the door behind us once I’m through. I sit on the end of the bed and wring my hands together, knuckles turning white in the silence.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He crosses his arms. Exhales sharply. “Jensen has a tattoo on his hand, no?”
I frown. “Yeah, he does. He’s got tattoos halfway up his arm. Why?”
He swallows, face pale in this light. “Amelie, my dad finally turned the cameras on. He got footage of someone with that tattoo in my building. The doorman said he was trying to talk his way into the elevator.”
I sit back on my hands with a blank face. It’s not Jensen. I know that it’s not Jensen, but there’s no way to convince Henry of that, let alone Roman.
Still, I try. “It wasn’t Jensen. He?—”
“It was the exact same tattoo, Amelie,” he says, and he isn’t raising his voice, but the irritation is obvious.
“I understand that,” I say, my own voice straining. “But it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t have done anything, Henry. He knows you’re off-limits to us now.”
That last part wasn’t meant to slip out, and I’m a little mortified that it did.
But Henry’s focus doesn’t waver. “You think it’s fake?”
I shake my head. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that maybe someone…has the exact same tattoo?”
That’s impossible. The design is something Jensen drew himself, but that detail is void. I’m one-hundred percent sure that the man in that video is not Jensen.
“I don’t know, Ames.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t know.”
“Maybe it was planted,” I blurt. “Not by your dad or anything, that’s not what I’m suggesting. But someone is messing with us, Henry. I told you that at the start.” I hesitate for a moment before asking, “Can I see the footage?”
Henry looks reluctant, but he pulls his phone out and hands it to me.
The man on the screen is chatting with the doorman—the same one I saw my first time there. He’s turned fully away from the lens, so I don’t even see the side of him until thirty seconds into the clip.
And when he shifts to the side, my stomach drops to my toes.
I see Jensen’s tattoo.
Jensen’s hair.
Jensen’s build.
Jensen’s leather jacket.
No. No. It isn’t. It can’t be.
“Don’t let him look into it,” I plead, handing Henry the phone back. “Not until I let them know. Please.”
Henry rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
I slouch over, defeated, but I have no reason to be. He doesn’t trust me. He shouldn’t trust me, probably, so my disappointment is invalid. But I know that isn’t Jensen.
We may be thieves, but we are loyal for heaven’s sake.
“Give me a week or something,” I say. “Surely I can get things straightened out.”
“What am I supposed to tell my dad?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I told him that I’m trying to figure this out. Asking him to put a hold on things doesn’t help my case.”
“Just a little bit of time,” I ask quietly. I’m not above begging in a situation like this. It makes my skin crawl, but I’ll survive. “Please, Henry. I’ve done what I can to help you. I’m still trying to help you. But you have to help me with this.”
His face is blank. Completely and utterly unreadable. I can tell that he’s weighing his options, deciding whether he’d rather deal with me or his dad’s complaints. I’m not trying to make this difficult for him; I understand how selfish the request is. It’s unfair. But I won’t let this happen.
“I can’t promise that,” he says, voice monotone. “I’m sorry.”
Instead of arguing anymore, I stand. “I understand. Just tell me when you decide, okay?”
Henry just nods. I leave his room and go to mine, dialing Meg’s number before I even sit down at the desk.
“Meg,” I say as soon as the ringing stops.
She doesn’t seem to sense the rising panic in my voice. “What’s up?”
“Nothing good,” I say. “Roman has footage that shows Jensen at Henry’s apartment building.”
“ What ?”
“I know! It has his tattoo in there. But it’s—it’s not him, right, Megs? You guys wouldn’t have done that. I know you wouldn’t.”
“We didn’t,” she says. “I’ll vouch for him. We’ve been together the whole time you’ve been gone.”
“Okay, we don’t need to get on that topic.” I sigh. “Have you guys snagged Lover of Mine yet?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Please be careful,” I say quietly. “Things are off. Just keep it more on the DL than normal, okay?”
“We do. You’re the one that likes being frivolous.”
Fair.
Shortly after, Meg hangs up with no further comments. I throw my phone onto the pile of clothes tumbling out of my suitcase and sit down on the floor, mind racing with solutions to a problem that shouldn’t exist.
Henry has no reason to believe me. I know this.
But if this is the only time he ever trusts me again, I’ll take it.