Chapter 33 Quicksand
Quicksand
Penelope sat rigidly behind her desk, all stillness except for the nearly soundless tapping of her heel against the floor as she tried to force her mind back to work.
Normally, routine grounded her—archiving, curating, logging details no one else noticed.
Today, though, every sound in the Meridian seemed too loud: the soft hum of the air vents, the faint shuffle of shoes echoing down the marble corridor.
Just being here reminded her of Lucia. And everything else.
She was not a patient person; well, she was, and she wasn’t. As long as she played an active role in whatever was going on, as long as her actions had weight and consequences, she could wait forever.
But stuck on the sidelines? Uninformed, powerless, deliberately excluded? It made her feel helpless, and she resented it with every fiber of her being. To be fair, she had excluded herself this time, but that did not make it sting any less.
She should probably check in with Montgomery, especially after the memo she’d received last night: Heads-up regarding an upcoming external review.
The kind of language that screamed quiet panic under professional varnish—a crisp line of dread beneath the formal phrasing. As if she needed another reason to crawl up the walls.
Penelope tugged at her collar. Her blouse clung to her skin, heat pressing against her spine. Since when was it so warm in her office? She hadn’t even turned on her little space heater.
The memo had cited inconsistencies in a recent inventory check. No details. Just “inconsistencies.” But Penelope had a sinking suspicion the Madonna wasn’t entirely out of the spotlight yet.
Was this how her father had felt when the walls started shifting and the knock finally came? Was she now tracing his footsteps all the way to the edge?
She’d also started to wonder: Had he rejected her investigation to prevent her from discovering his complicity, or had his goal been to protect her? To protect her career from harm? The fact that she even had to ask these questions sat like lead in her stomach.
Penelope still vividly recalled the way he’d looked at her on the day of the verdict—sorrow painted across his face.
But now, the way his head had lowered seemed less like grief and more like shame.
Perhaps she was rewriting history based on new information.
But wasn’t that how understanding worked?
The phone rang.
“Yes.”
“Could you come to my office?”
And here it was. “Of course, Dr. Montgomery.”
She hung up and closed her eyes.
Her walk to Montgomery’s office seemed much shorter than usual.
The polished floors reflected her image in brief, fractured flashes—like walking through a hall of mirrors she couldn’t quite escape.
Her thoughts zoomed faster than cars on a racetrack.
Too bad they didn’t offer anything helpful, instead of piling fear after fear, worry after worry.
Penelope knocked, then entered on Montgomery’s “Come in, please.”
“You wished to see me.”
“Yes. Please sit down.”
Penelope did, silently holding Montgomery’s gaze. She wouldn’t talk. Only answer. Too often people confessed to all sorts of wrongdoing just because they couldn’t endure silence.
A minute passed. Her blouse scratched her skin, and the smell of print toner made her nose itch.
Montgomery sighed. “You flagged the Madonna’s records. You knew something was off. Why didn’t you push harder?”
Penelope kept her expression placid—at least she hoped she did. “I was still investigating. It wasn’t clear what was going on, and I wanted to be sure before I brought it to your attention.”
“That’s not your job. It’s the registrar’s job to investigate inconsistencies. Your role is to flag issues, not solve them.”
“I did flag them.”
“Only internally.”
Penelope did not ask how Montgomery knew about them in that case. But the criticism was deserved.
“I apologize. I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me. It won’t happen again.”
Montgomery’s expression remained unreadable. Still, the tension in the air belied the notion that this issue had been resolved.
“May I ask what inconsistencies require an external review?”
“We received an anonymous tip and uncovered metadata irregularities. Protocol requires external oversight at this point.”
“I assume you can’t share more?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Is the review limited to the Madonna in Red?”
Montgomery tapped her pen against the folder. “An interesting question. Again, I’m not at liberty to answer your questions. We want to make sure this audit is free from any…influence.”
“Of course. Is there something else you needed?”
“No, that’s it. Thank you for your time.”
Penelope nodded and left the office.
None of this inspired confidence. Even the quiet click of the door behind her felt final, like a seal closing over something she no longer controlled.
Valentina surely had her hands in this somehow—but why?
She already had the Madonna. Maybe this was her way of signaling that she knew the Collective hadn’t let go.
Though Penelope couldn’t see what she was hoping to gain.
Disruption? Delay? Leverage? On the other hand, perhaps it was payback for Penelope’s involvement with the Collective.
~ ~ ~
Penelope managed to finish the rest of her workday without spiraling into worry, but when she returned home, all bets were off.
Not even Fuller stretched out on her lap purring stopped the freight train of her thoughts.
What if she had caused all this by calling Valentina—and in doing so, sent the police closer to Lucia?
Lucia, who wanted to quit and was just doing this one last run to help Francesca.
And even Francesca only wanted to retrieve what had been stolen from her decades ago.
The Collective’s usual work—precision theft, quiet swaps, targeted strikes at institutions—wasn’t the same as what Valentina had built, her empire of laundering and intimidation.
Francesca’s group survived in shadows; Valentina thrived on control.
But was the Collective really better, just because Penelope knew them and felt an ever-growing affinity for one of them?
She kept opening her thread with Lucia several times, once even started typing. But she’d already made them crazy with her “Valentina knows” message, and now…to say Montgomery was calling for an investigation?
At least she didn’t see how anyone would spot that the Madonna at the Meridian was a fake. It was better than the Bellini, and if that had passed all their tests…
If only there were a way to figure out what exactly they were looking for.
Then it hit her—Jules!
She’d given Penelope her number during the preparations for the Madonna…exchange. Though maybe they were all together, and she’d disturb them or even arouse suspicions. So, OK, no cold call. Texting.
She wrote Jules:
If you have a minute, give me a call? Don’t mention this to Lucia or Francesca, please. It might be nothing, but I need someone tech-savvy.
By the time Jules called, Penelope had dozed off. She was one of the few people she knew who always crashed after an adrenaline spike.
She wiped her eyes and answered the phone.
“Hey, thanks for the call.”
“Sure, sure. What’s up?”
“At work, they are looking into getting an external audit because of some irregularities with a recent inventory, including your boss’s favorite.”
“Oh, you think they know something?”
“I don’t know. I was wondering if you could check? That is, if you still have access or can easily reestablish it? I know you’re busy and all.”
“Hmm, yes. I’ll look into it, but no promises.”
“Of course. I really appreciate it. And please—”
“Yes, yes. Mum is the word. Why don’t you wanna tell Lucia? Won’t she be mad when she finds out?”
“Lucia?” Penelope echoed. “Mad?”
“Hurt, then,” Jules said, deadpan.
Penelope sighed. “She’s already trying to leave, and this is… It’s my problem, and it doesn’t relate to what’s happening on your end. I don’t want to worry her.”
“But it’s kinda related; we’re involved in all that happened there at…work.”
“Yes, but it might not be, and you can actually check. All Lucia could do is worry along with me. What good would that do?”
“Good point. Just leave me out of this if it blows up in your face. I don’t need any lesbian drama in my life.”
“Hey!”
“No offense. You guys are just intense.”
“Because straight people have no drama?” She rolled her eyes.
“Point taken.”
“Thanks, Jules.”
“I’ll let you know what I find. And Blackwell?”
“Yes?”
“You owe me.”
Penelope smiled. “Gladly.”
When the call ended, Penelope dropped back against the couch cushion. The quiet of her apartment pressed in, sharpening every sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock, Fuller’s tail brushing her leg.
She had done the right thing. If she wanted to have a chance at defending herself, she needed to know what was coming. That way, she could stay one step ahead of Montgomery.
It still didn’t erase the sensation of dread mixed with guilt.
She wasn’t keeping this from Lucia because she didn’t trust her or didn’t want her to know.
Lucia had so much on her plate now, and she truly couldn’t help.
Yet, all Penelope could picture were her sad eyes, and the way she’d say, “Oh, OK. I understand.” And absorb another hit.
Penelope vowed to tell her as soon as she knew more from Jules, no matter what she found during her search of the Meridian’s files.
All of this also brought her thoughts back to her father once again—to the day of the verdict and how he’d told her, “It’s all right. We’ll get through this.” And then, “Don’t worry about that,” when she’d told him it wasn’t fair and that they should appeal his conviction.
He’d refused. Now she understood why. Maybe he’d already made peace with the guilt before the gavel ever fell.
With a sigh, Penelope rose and ambled to her computer. She needed to clean up her notes at work, making sure everything was as it should be for whatever was about to come her way.