43. Henry
43
HENRY
I’ve been packing my suitcase for half an hour, still not brave enough to go into the living area.
I’m not sure why I’m hesitant. Maybe because of the letters, or because I don’t know how Amelie is going to react to seeing me. I don’t even know how I’ll react to seeing her. We’re about to be stuck in a vehicle for two hours, and I can hardly think about her without feeling crazy.
So I take my time gathering my things. It gives me some dose of comfort, knowing that nothing will be set in motion until I step out into the hallway. As long as I stay behind this door, things won’t change. I can pretend that last night didn’t happen the way it did. I can believe that everything is going to be fine.
It isn’t close to the truth, but I let myself believe it anyway.
When the clock strikes 8:30, I hear the front door open and close. I release a breath and zip up my bag, forcing myself into the hallway.
Amelie is taking her coat off when I reach the living room, and I’m shocked to find Margot alongside her, doing the same. The two look strangely friendly this morning, in that, neither look as homicidal as usual.
Until Amelie’s eyes land on me. Then it’s a different story.
I can’t even decipher the emotion that rests in her stare. It’s somewhere between sadness and anger, but those can co-exist, so I give up trying to pick out which one. She looks away without saying anything, so I keep my mouth shut, too.
I’ve never dreaded anything more than I’m dreading the ride back home.
“Mom? Dad?” Amelie calls up the stairs, banging her fist on the banister twice. “Downstairs, please.”
Her tone is so stoic that it takes me a minute to figure out what’s going on. I don’t connect the dots, not until she glances at me over her shoulder and shakes her head once.
She’s going to ask them about the letters.
“One second, pumpkin,” Arnie calls back, clearly not picking up on the hostility in Amelie’s voice. Maybe it’s not as obvious as I think—maybe I’m just used to being on the receiving end of it.
Amelie’s parents come down the stairs and stop directly in front of her. They’re both smiling until they look at her face. I can’t even see her expression, but I know it’s negative, given that the reaction was instantaneous.
“Sit down,” Amelie says quietly, motioning to the couch. “We need to talk.”
Arnie seems confused out of his mind, but Melinda looks terrified.
Both of them sit down and eye Amelie curiously. I stand near the corner of the rug, trying to stay out of this, but I still want to hear. I still want to know. I think I have that right; it’s not as though this doesn’t involve me.
“I found the letters in the attic,” Amelie says, wasting no time at all. “You guys hid them there, right? Four years ago, before I could read any of them. Why ?”
Melinda frowns, but Arnie laughs. “Pumpkin, why would you?—”
“ Please don’t lie to me,” she says. “It had to have been you guys. I just want to know why, because I don’t appreciate what time was taken from me.” She takes a deep breath. “Please. Just tell me.”
Melinda glances at Arnie, and there’s something pleading in her gaze. He doesn’t seem to read it well, because he says, “Yes. We put them there.”
His wife sighs and drops her head into her hands.
“Why?” Amelie asks again. Her voice is quiet, almost childlike. “I don’t understand. What did Henry do to you?”
“Nothing,” Melinda says, looking at me. “You did nothing, honey. But your father did.”
My father.
Of course.
“What do you mean?” I ask, stepping forward. “What did he do?”
Amelie sits down on the edge of the coffee table, and I join. Obviously, I knew that someone in her family hid the letters, but I never thought it had to do with my dad. I really assumed that I did something to provoke it. Maybe they thought I chose school over Amelie, or they didn’t trust me with her any longer.
But my dad ?
I mean, I get it. But not really.
“You’re going to find out a lot of things through this conversation, Henry,” Arnie says, leaning back into the couch cushions. He’s more nonchalant about this than Melinda is. “Many things that you could get us in trouble over.”
“I won’t,” I say, a little prematurely, but I’m so curious that I’d really agree to anything right now.
Melinda exhales and looks at me. “I don’t know how much Amelie has told you, but back in the day, Arnold and I were art thieves, too. We ran with most of Amelie’s clients; she got lots of them from us.”
“I got some on my own,” Amelie mumbles, looking simultaneously proud and self-conscious at the admission. “But anyways. Keep talking.”
“Well, we had a rival,” her mom continues. “Back in…lord, Arnie, what was that? The nineties?”
“At least,” Arnie responds. “Year of ninety-three, I think.”
She nods, clasping her hands together. “Right. See, Henry, that rival…that was Roman.”
I blink, not fully understanding. How could my dad be their rival? Back then, his museum was still at its beginning. Or so he’s said; it’s not as though I saw it myself. But lying over this doesn’t make any sense.
Unless Amelie’s parents specifically targeted his museum, and he made it his goal to put them away. That would make sense as to why he’s always hated Amelie.
“So, what, this was like a cat-and-mouse thing?” Amelie asks, voicing my thoughts. “You took from him, and he retaliated?”
Melinda shakes her head once. “No, honey. Roman was a thief too.”
And suddenly, nothing makes sense.
“You’re not serious,” Amelie says, at the same time I say, “That doesn’t add up.”
“It was a back-and-forth deal,” Arnie says, sounding mildly exasperated. I’d guess that delving back into his past wasn’t on his agenda for the day. “We met the man over a poker game. It’s one of the most ridiculous stories I’ve got.”
“I’ll tell it, then.” Melinda rolls her eyes. “Yes, we met Roman at a poker game. That was the only reason he knew our names or faces. This was back when casinos were fun, mind you. Anyways, Arnie and I had a job later that night. Roman happened to have a job at the same museum, stealing a painting displayed directly across from ours.
“Him and I simply made eye contact. Didn’t say a word. He went on with his work, and us with ours. Now, your father and I had a very bad habit of transporting our pieces the next day. We’d leave our van parked out back with the piece stashed in it; that way, it could look like it was being transported to the museum if anything went wrong. But the next day, when we went to move this piece, it was gone.”
“How do you know it was him?” I ask.
“He took it from you?” Amelie asks simultaneously.
Melinda blinks. “Okay. Amelie first. Yes, he took it. Quite easily, I assume.”
“What were his patterns?” She presses. “Calling card?”
“Calling card…” Melinda mumbles. “I can hardly remember it. Arnie?”
“His calling card was… cards ,” he says. “He left playing cards around, right? Aces, I think.”
Melinda nods vigorously. “That’s it. Which brings us to Henry’s question: that’s how we knew it was him. Or, assumed, anyways. The cards told too much. Our signature was much less obvious, though we didn’t start that until years later.”
“What’s your signature?” I ask quietly.
“Bandit masks,” Amelie mumbles, looking at her parents. “That’s it, right? You were the Bandits. You never called it by name in your journals, but that must’ve been you. I’m willing to bet you and Roman’s little chase got the rates up.”
“They gave us a name ?” Melinda looks shocked as she turns to Arnie. “Well, would you look at that? I never would’ve guessed.”
Amelie mutters something under her breath, but I stay silent. I’m trying to keep this information in my mind while simultaneously trying to figure out why it matters. That was over thirty years ago—what did it have to do with Amelie and I?
Perhaps my father didn’t want his secret spilled, because at that point, he was trying to be the good guy.
“I don’t understand how you’ve managed to act like saints all week, as if you didn’t do this.” Amelie says flatly. “I get that you don’t like Roman, but that didn’t give you any right to break Henry and I apart. It was your past. Not ours.” She shakes her head. Cracks her knuckles. “I loved him. Don’t you realize what that did to me?”
“It just couldn’t happen, Amelie,” Melinda whispers, having the decency to look ashamed. “Roman would’ve?—”
“Roman would’ve done nothing to me.” Amelie cuts her off. “I wouldn’t have let him.”
Melinda snaps her mouth shut and turns to Arnie. He sighs, but finally sits forward and chimes in. “We did it to protect you,” he says. “We never meant for it to hurt you, pumpkin. You were so resilient. We thought it would be another thing to roll off your back. It was never with ill intent.”
“I believe you,” Amelie says quietly. “I do. But I can’t forgive you in an instant, and you know that.”
The two of them nod in unison, like they expected the response from her. I take the rare moment of silence to ask my one and only question.
“Did you stop our calls, too? From Amelie’s phone?”
At this, Melinda’s face twists into confusion. “You can stop calls?”
Amelie makes a noise that sounds like a strangled laugh, and I take that as an answer.
The letters were her parents’ doing, but the calls were someone else’s. That someone just happened to have the same idea at the same time.
It’s not exactly hard to guess who .
“We have to go now,” Amelie says, standing abruptly from the coffee table. I stand as well, and her parents do the same. “I’ve got things to handle.”
Melinda nods, her mouth still pulled into a slight frown. The expression wavers slightly when Amelie steps forward and hugs her. “I’m sorry, baby,” Melinda whispers, squeezing her arm once before she steps away. “I really am. And I’m sorry to you, too, Henry.”
I just nod, because it’s not okay, but also, it doesn’t seem like they were fully at fault.
Amelie and I wordlessly get our suitcases and work on getting out of the house. We say a final round of goodbyes on the porch and stumble out to the car, staying quiet until the engine roars to life. Arnie did scrape my windshield this morning—I wish I had thanked him for it, but I wasn’t aware. Amelie instantly turns on music and keeps her eyes pointed out the windshield, chewing on her lips as I put the car in drive.
“You alright?” I ask her, my voice low.
She gives a nod, eyes slowly pulling away from the road but never coming to me. “Yeah. I’m good.”
I can see the gears turning in her mind, sifting through every aspect of this mess, but only one thought pops into mine.
I hope my dad knows exactly what he’s gotten himself into.