Chapter 35 Wired
Wired
Penelope’s phone was vibrating on her nightstand.
Blurry-eyed, she seized it and accepted the call without checking caller ID. “Yes?”
“It’s Lucia. There was an accident. She’s at Grady. Come. Now,” Jules croaked.
Penelope shot upright, her mouth going dry. “I’ll be there.”
After she almost fell in her haste to scramble out of bed, Penelope threw on clothes with shaking hands and rushed out five minutes later, her heart lodged in her throat.
Wasn’t the run supposed to happen tomorrow? An accident could mean anything—something at the warehouse or on the road. She didn’t know. She only knew she had to get there.
Why didn’t you ask more questions?
She considered calling Jules for details, but with her hands trembling and blood roaring in her ears, she couldn’t risk distractions on the freeway.
Twenty-five minutes later, she was already striding toward the hospital entrance when she finally hit dial.
“Where are you? Where’s Lucia?” she barked.
“I’m in the hallway outside her room, 319, on the third floor, arguing with the staff.”
“Maybe don’t do that.”
Penelope clenched her fingers around her purse strap, eyeing the lights in the elevator panel as they blinked up to the third floor.
She gazed at the signage, turned right, and quickened her pace when she spotted Jules’s lanky form standing outside a hospital room, her foot tapping an erratic rhythm on the floor.
Penelope clenched her jaw. The sterile, antiseptic scent in the air did nothing to ease the nausea twisting in her gut.
“What happened?” She clutched Jules’s trembling hand. “You’re hurt.” Bruising bloomed along Jules’s neck, and dried blood crusted on her split lip.
“It’s nothing.” Jules shrugged, then winced.
“Right. I can see that.”
“It all went well, but…I don’t know.” Jules wiped at her eyes. “I fucked up and drove through a red light on the way back, and a car hit the van—right where Lucia sat.”
Penelope’s lips parted, her gaze drifting to the door labeled 319. “Is she…”
“She’s groggy. On painkillers. They said she has mild head trauma, bruised ribs, some cuts and stuff, but nothing’s broken.”
“Thank God. What about the others?”
“Like me. Some bruising. We’ll all be sore tomorrow, but nothing serious. Skye sprained her wrist. She’s inside with Lucia right now.”
“Francesca?”
Jules sighed. “She left right before the EMTs arrived. I’m assuming she’s home.”
“She just left you all there?”
“She doesn’t do hospitals. Besides, we were fine. I mean… She couldn’t stay either way. We heard sirens, and…” Jules glanced around. “She did check on all of us first.”
Penelope nodded. “Can I—can I go inside?”
“Yes, of course.”
Penelope paused, then straightened and pushed down the door handle.
Inside, Skye glared at her, but Penelope didn’t have it in her to care as her gaze zeroed in on Lucia—frail and bruised, a bandage wrapped around her temple, a faint smear of dried blood still clinging to the edge.
The IV stand beside her cast a thin, skeletal shadow across the bed, and the soft beep of the monitor amplified every beat of Penelope’s panic.
She drew closer.
“Hey, you,” she breathed, tracing her fingertips over the back of Lucia’s hand. “Don’t think you get out of your raincheck like this.”
Her vision blurred.
A beat of stillness filled the room.
“Did you do this?” Skye’s voice jarred her out of her thoughts.
Penelope’s gaze snapped toward her. “Do what?”
“Did you tell Varnelli about us coming?”
“What? I thought it all worked out?”
“We got the red lady, yes, but Varnelli was there, and it seemed like she knew we were coming. So, did you let something slip?”
Penelope gritted her teeth. For a split second, she wondered if Skye’s paranoia was justified, if her own call had tipped something, but no. “Why on earth would I do that?”
Skye shrugged. “You tell me.”
“That’s insane. I worked with you to bring her down. Why would I help her now? Not to mention, I’d never do anything that could endanger Lucia.”
Skye held her gaze, as if measuring her sincerity, and something in Penelope twisted, tight and furious, begging to be let out. How dare Skye accuse her of something like this?
“I didn’t even know it was happening tonight.” She dropped into the chair next to Lucia’s bed.
“So you say.”
Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose. “Look, I know you care for Lucia in your own…combative way, and you’ve been through quite the ordeal, but I doubt Lucia would appreciate all these accusations you’re flinging my way.”
“Of course not. Lucia rarely knows what’s good for her.”
“But you do?”
Skye ducked her head. “Didn’t say that.”
Penelope remained silent.
“She’s also way too forgiving.”
“Hmm, yes. She’s that. But it seems like you’ve benefited from that quite a bit, no?”
Skye narrowed her eyes. “Don’t… Just don’t play her, OK?”
“I’m not playing her, and I won’t.”
~ ~ ~
At work, Penelope was called in to answer questions from the auditors. Her head was still stuck on Lucia—the image of her in that hospital bed seared into her brain. She wasn’t in the headspace for this, but there was no choice.
She entered the conference room, where a man and a woman sat at the head of the table, going over their notes.
The man looked up first. “You must be Dr. Blackwell. This is Ms. Ida Young, and I’m Martin Sterne. We’ve been tasked with the audit of the Meridian’s acquisitions and inventory records and have a few questions. Please, sit.”
“Nice to meet you.” Penelope sat down across from them. “Go ahead. I’m all yours.”
Young’s lips twitched. “When did you first notice irregularities in the Madonna in Red’s provenance documents?”
“Several months ago, but as for the exact date, I’d have to check my notes.”
“We didn’t see a report filed through the proper channels,” Sterne said. “Can you explain why that step was skipped?”
Penelope let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose I got ahead of myself. I wanted to solve this mystery on my own.”
“Bored with your usual responsibilities?” Young asked.
“No. Just…maybe I’ve been reading too many Agatha Christie novels recently.” Penelope groaned internally in disbelief that she was using Valentina’s line to defend herself.
Sterne adjusted his glasses. “You suspected some form of criminal activity?”
“Not exactly. I was just curious.” She shifted. “It felt like a puzzle, and I wanted to see if I could piece it together myself.” Penelope forced herself to remain impassive, though inside she was screaming. What did they know? Did they know about Francesca? Doubtful.
“Are you familiar with the owner of the Madonna?” Young asked.
Penelope’s fingers dug into her thigh. “Not personally. I’ve exchanged emails with Ms. Varnelli about the Madonna loan and other paintings.”
Sterne tapped his pen on his notepad. “And you’ve had no other contact with Ms. Varnelli or her representatives?”
“Not that I know of,” Penelope lied, hoping there was no way to disprove that.
Once they dismissed her, Penelope had to refrain from running back to her office. She shivered as the AC cycled on.
She should have forwarded her findings. This, combined with her push to take the Madonna down before the ball, might read—on paper at least—as a coordinated act of sabotage. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the thought of them suspecting her, or that they were right, at least in part.
~ ~ ~
After Penelope’s workday concluded, she headed to the hospital to visit Lucia again.
According to Skye, the doctors expected Lucia to stay there for a few more days, and Jules had texted her earlier that Lucia had been pretty lucid today, along with an update that she’d found no further information on the current audit besides all Penelope already knew: an anonymous call raising provenance questions about the Madonna.
Yet all that seemed trivial compared to her fretting about Lucia.
As she hurried along the brightly lit corridors, she passed by an elderly man shuffling along, pushing his IV stand. He smiled at her, and she nodded. Her shoes squeaked on the linoleum floors, and when she reached 319, she paused.
With a deep breath, she pushed all her worries from today and, most importantly, over Lucia, to the side and entered the room with a smile.
“Hey,” Penelope said. “Look who’s up.”
Lucia offered her a loopy grin. “They got some good stuff.”
She looked a bit better, maybe because she was awake.
Penelope gave a soft laugh. “I’m glad you’re not in pain.”
They were alone, and Penelope sat in the same chair as yesterday, holding Lucia’s hand.
“You came,” Lucia’s voice rang soft.
“Of course. And today, it’s just me in here, and your guard dog isn’t about to savage my flesh.”
Lucia laughed. “Ow, damn.” She shifted, almost curling in on herself.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Penelope squeezed Lucia’s hand.
“It’s fine. Just don’t be funny. My ribs don’t like it when I laugh. Or cough. Sneezing is also an adventure.”
Penelope pressed a quick kiss on the back of Lucia’s hand. “I’m so sorry you got hurt.”
“It’s all right. Who’d have guessed it’d be an accident.”
Penelope just hummed, unable to echo the sentiment.
“Are you all right?” Lucia asked.
She smiled. “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Fat chance.” Lucia murmured, her eyelids drooping again.
“You should rest.”
“Don’t wanna. All I do is sleep.”
“That’s good. It’s what your body needs.”
“Francesca called when Skye was here this morning.”
“She called you? Shouldn’t she have come here? You were hurt because…” Penelope still felt some kind of way about Francesca leaving Lucia at the scene, though rationally, she understood. But now? This was ridiculous.
“Francesca and hospitals don’t mix.”
“No one likes hospitals. That’s the least she could have done,” Penelope all but grumbled.
“You’re cute when you’re protective.”
“Oh, hush.”
“Francesca said she had an epiphany.”
“About what? Her manners?”
Lucia bit her lower lip. “Stop making me laugh.”
“I’m sorry.” Penelope stroked Lucia’s hand. “Go on.”
“She didn’t wanna say. Said we’ll talk once I’m back home.”
“That’s probably a smart move. You need more rest.”
“She sounded tired, though.”
“That I believe.”
“Yeah. Will you stay a bit longer?” Lucia asked.
“Yes.” Penelope leaned back, still holding Lucia’s hand, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. “Of course,” she said again, quieter this time, like a promise.
She hated how brittle life could be—how easily it all could shatter without warning. Penelope preferred not to linger on such thoughts as they only made her mood spiral, and it proved a fact of life she couldn’t change.
She’d seen it with her father, how he’d been ripped from her twice, first by the conviction and then by finding out his true role—his suspected true role.
Why did she even bother holding onto hope? Wouldn’t that make the crash even harder?
She glanced at Lucia’s slumbering face, at the bruises dotting her skin.
Penelope could have lost her before they’d even begun. The thought stole her breath, pressing down on her like a stone.
What was she even doing? And yet—nothing could make her move. She sat, still and silent, drinking in the sight of Lucia: bruised, hurt, but alive. Anchored by the warmth of her skin against hers.