Chapter 26 Spirals
Spirals
Lucia groaned, wiping a smudge on her canvas.
She leaned back and stared at her painting—an explosion of color, earth tones bleeding into various shades of red. Up close, it looked like chaos, but if you stepped away, it crystallized into the image of a locked scream.
Melodramatic? Yes.
Lucia didn’t plan on showing it to anyone or, God forbid, including it in an exhibit. This was one of her personal journaling pieces where she tried to throw an emotion onto the canvas. That was it. She felt like screaming, overturning tables, clawing at the walls.
Yet she did nothing because she had no mouth, couldn’t move, and her arms were as weak as cooked noodles.
Everything had gone wrong.
She’d been so high with Penelope, and yes, maybe the law of balance demanded a return to lower heights, but that didn’t mean she had to plummet to the fucking ground.
Two days had passed since the theft and the ambush, since Francesca had shared her insane plan, since Lucia had promised to call Penelope and hadn’t done it.
At first, she’d been trapped in inertia—too shocked to even move—then Francesca’s news added more pressure, and when she’d gotten home, Lucia had just collapsed and passed out.
Ever since, she had locked herself in her art studio and painted.
So many first attempts morphed either into Penelope’s features or something that reminded Lucia of her. For crying out loud, she’d even doodled a picture of a piece of tiramisu on a plate.
She sometimes swore she could feel Penelope’s touch, her fingertips brushing against her cheek or along the back of her neck.
She kept telling herself: just do this first, then call her, but something always jumped the line, and eventually, the silence—the stillness she’d started—only grew bigger and bigger until she had to look away, afraid it would swallow her whole.
Hence, the emotional journaling piece.
She was stuck. And if she didn’t move soon, her inability to function like a normal human being might cost her everything—her relationship with Francesca, her career, and whatever fragile, beautiful thing had begun to bloom with Penelope.
They hadn’t even talked about what they were, yet here Lucia was, stuck in the quicksand of her own making and unable to get the fuck up and do something.
A hard knock on her door rattled Lucia, and she dropped her brush.
“Shit,” she grumbled and picked it up before lumbering to the door.
“Open the goddamned door, Lucy,” Francesca’s voice rang through the wood, followed by another loud knock.
She pulled at the handle, and before she could say anything, Francesca waltzed inside.
Lucia shut the door, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Now is not—”
“Hush,” Francesca said, her voice soft, distracted.
Lucia looked up and noticed that Francesca had stopped in front of her journaling painting. Great.
“This is…painful,” Francesca said after a moment.
“It’s not that bad.” Lucia stepped next to her.
“No, it’s excellent. I wasn’t talking about the quality of the painting.”
“Oh.”
Francesca looked at Lucia. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Go wash up a bit. I’ll make us something to drink.”
“Wash up? Am I three years old or what?”
“Just go. Refresh yourself a bit. Sometimes that helps to clear your head of the stupor it’s fallen into.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Don’t be so flippant, Lucy.”
With a sigh, Lucia stalked into the half bath and washed up.
Five minutes later, they stood in Lucia’s kitchenette—where she had prepared tea for her and Penelope—and sipped their drinks.
A stillness settled between them.
Francesca’s gaze drifted over the half-finished canvases and the streaks of color staining Lucia’s palms. Something in her expression softened. “You don’t have to do this,” she said after a few minutes.
“Paint? I think I do.”
Francesca gave a soft laugh. “No. Being with me, helping me with all my ventures—especially since I continue to strike out.”
Lucia faltered, momentarily off-balance. A life without Francesca? Without the Collective? How she’d yearned for it at times. But the notion that would free her also terrified her like no other.
“I know you’ve grown tired and restless. I never…I never meant to turn you into something you’re not.”
“You didn’t. I don’t know where I’d be without you. I owe you a lot.”
“Hmm.” Francesca took a sip of her mug. “You’d have found a way. You’re smart and resourceful.” She smiled. “And so unwaveringly kind.”
Lucia rubbed her neck, her gaze finding her sock-clad feet. “We might have to agree to disagree. I’m not saying I’d have died without you, but… I wouldn’t be where I am today without your help, without your guidance.”
“A place that suffocates you?”
A beat.
“It’s not that simple.” Even if that were true, she’d never say it. It would be like spitting in Francesca’s face.
“It never is.”
“I do want to help you. I know how important the Madonna is to you.”
“I appreciate that, and I want your help, but you don’t owe me. I want you to be happy, and I thought you were, that you enjoyed our work, but I have to admit that maybe I’ve been seeing what I wanted to see.”
Lucia rolled her lips. “I don’t hate it. It used to be more fun at the beginning, but now… I don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“You’d let me go?”
Francesca’s lips parted. “Lucy, you’re not my prisoner.”
“I just… I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Francesca placed her cup into the sink before taking Lucia’s from her hands and putting it on the counter. She turned back to her and clasped Lucia’s hands.
“You could never disappoint me. I do want you in my life, and even if you move on to…greener pastures”—a wry smile spread on Francesca’s lips—“we’re still family, right?”
Lucia could only nod.
“Come here.” Francesca pulled Lucia into a tight embrace.
Swallowing hard, Lucia gripped Francesca’s back. “Thank you,” she rasped, her shoulders dropping as tension leaked from her.
“Now, go and contact Blackwell.”
“What?”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Not about me or the Madonna. About you and your…infatuation.” She sniffed.
Lucia ducked her head as heat suffused her cheeks.
“Children.” Francesca sighed.
“Hey! You’re not that much older!”
Francesca snorted. “Right. Get to it.”
“Yes, yes. And I’ll help you. With the Madonna. We’ll get her back.”
Francesca smiled. “Thank you.”
After Francesca left, Lucia first washed the two mugs because why jump right into the fire? It was so much more productive to watch and fret over it.
Infuriating. It shouldn’t be possible to annoy yourself so much.
Eventually, she withdrew into the bedroom, pulled out her phone, took a deep breath, and called Penelope.
“Hey, how are you?” Penelope answered on the second ring.
“Been better. You?”
“Better now, to be honest.”
Lucia smiled. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I got lost in my head.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you…do you want to come over and talk, or are you busy?”
“Let’s talk on the phone. I don’t want to get distracted,” Penelope said.
“Distracted? Oh. Right. Yeah. That would be…bad.”
“I wouldn’t call it bad, but…yes.”
“Right, so… the thing that happened. We’re pretty sure our mutual not-friend arranged an interception. Armed. Efficient. They relieved us of everything we worked so hard to get.”
“I assumed it was her, too. Do you know how they found you?”
Lucia exhaled. “They think the breach didn’t happen during the actual run. It started earlier—during prep. Something dormant. Waiting.”
“So it wasn’t reactive,” Penelope said quietly. “It was planted.”
“That’s how it sounds,” Lucia said. “By the time we moved, they already had what they needed.”
A pause.
“If that’s true,” Penelope said, “then whatever system you touched was already compromised.”
“That was our takeaway, too.”
“I won’t ask for details,” Penelope said. “But I can make sure our side is swept. Quietly.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“And what happens now?” Penelope asked.
Lucia hesitated. “My Italian friend isn’t inclined to let this go. So we’re…considering alternatives.”
“Riskier ones?”
A breath. “Yes.”
Stillness.
“I made some connections—between my father and…our mutual not-friend. I’ve been meaning to bring this up before, but it was never the right time. It might be best to discuss this with your Italian friend present, too.”
“Oh, OK. Yes, we can totally do that. I’ll talk to them, and we’ll set something up.”
“Great.”
Silence.
“This is terribly awkward.”
Penelope laughed. “Yes, but we’re talking.”
“Yeah. We are.” Lucia sat down on the bed. “So, how have you been? Any news on your front? Any issues there?”
“Perhaps, but it all relates to what I want to discuss with you guys.”
“Makes sense. And…on the personal front?”
“Not much. While you were lost in your head, I delved into research. Working helps when…things aren’t what I’d like them to be.”
“How would you like things to be?”
“Not silent.”
Lucia closed her eyes. “Yeah. That was on me. I’m truly sorry.”
“I didn’t say that for you to feel bad or apologize. I just… I want to be honest and… This isn’t easy for me. My natural instinct was to walk away and make peace with it by letting go.”
Lucia froze. Her heart seemed to halt before galloping away. Would she have lost Penelope if she’d waited just one more day?
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she croaked after a beat.
“Me too.”