"Nature morte aux chandeliers" (Still Life with Candlestick) by Fernand Léger (1922), stolen 2010, unrecoverable (thief proclaims to have thrown in trash, along with four other works) - value $28 million
Robert Yollow @ YollowPoppies Oct 29
Just a reminder that Eleanor Vaycker, daughter of one percenters and renowned diva, still hasn't been arrested yet. They're hoping we'll forget. We won't. #wheresthewidow #shedidit
LouAnne Pitinsky @ lovaloves08 4h
Ya'll telling me she was found AT the crimescene, had plenty of access to it beforehand, and STILL hasn't been arrested? The FBI really looking for excuses here huh #shedidit
William Bin @ binna_while Oct 17
If this was anyone else they would've been arrested by now... anyone else smell the stench of a nepo baby?
Checkit @ 09checks09 45m
Lmao I'm not saying she did it but seems a little sus right? Her coworkers said she acted fake all the time. She's probably super manipulative #shedidit #probably
Dr. Mike Vhiner, Ph.D. @ MikeVhiner 2h
People — that's not how the FBI works. There has to be an investigation first. If she did it, they'll find out. Let's just hope they find the painting before the mafia gets it.
DogLover @ luckyluvsme 34m
Reply to @ MikeVhiner the MAFIA?? When did this become a mafia issue?? Turn off The Godfather my dude #shedidit #boomeralert
Dr. Mike Vhiner, Ph.D. @ MikeVhiner 1m
Reply to @ luckyluvsme Please do your research. There's been multiple art thefts over the years and many have proven ties to various mafias. It's a real concern.
Rep. Cordelia Bontin @ RepCordeliaBontin Oct 3
The recent art theft highlights the importance of preserving culturally significant pieces, funding museums, and celebrating history. We must band together to protect, cherish, and educate.
MythBuster @ whodidit90 Oct 3
Reply to @ RepCordeliaBontin now you're talking about the importance of PAINT? You literally defunded schools. Nurses, doctors, and teachers are quitting in droves. Cost of living is too high. Get your priorities in order #Idontcareifshedidit
Chapter Twenty-Two
When was I traipsing the city with Simon the night before, there'd been moments when I'd been able to forget why he was there. It wasn't necessarily the first time I'd slipped into blissful ignorance. There'd been other times, too; all supplied by various members of my inner circle. August could give me fleetingly brief moments of respite, laughing about our lousy days or discussing TV episodes. Lena and Carrie could nag, pester, and overall annoy me, but their interactions were still welcome, because with them, I could slip into the familiarity of usual gossip and bickering.
In those moments, I didn't feel the contagion of their pity or the crunch of eggshells beneath my feet. They offered moments of normal.
But there were other moments, too. Moments when the dark cloud that always hung overhead was too bleak to ignore, or lashed my strained shoulders with lightning. When it drenched my staggering soul with downpour and deafened my ears with thunder. What was the saying? When it rained, it poured? When you sank, you drowned? When the lawyers arrived, you'd already lost something?
"Ms. Vaycker, are you listening?"
People had asked me that a lot since the theft. The answer was usually no.
"Yes, ma'am."
"We'll go ahead and get started then," Ms. Filbright said. "We're looking to discuss your next steps, especially concerning public defense and social repair."
I cleared my throat and leaned back in the conference room chair. Buildings like the one we were in were too stuffy, too corporate, and too polished for my comfort. Every big-shot firm lawyer found residing in a glass fortress like this one was like Ms. Filbright: arrogant, brilliant, and brutal. As one of the head lawyers on my case, she was as tinged with steel as the watch on her wrist.
I didn't feel the need to hold back in my response. "May I ask where we are with clearing my name legally, before we move on to clearing it publicly?"
I gazed around the table, from the iron-backs of Ms. Filbright and her firm partner Mr. Worton to the slightly less imposing statures of the junior partners and paralegals. Even to the intern, who seemed meek compared to the might of the mature professionals around him, but wasn't exactly a guppy. They all looked surprised at my question—clearly, they hadn't expected much from me. My parents had been the puppeteers of my contact with them so far, but not anymore. I was getting restless.
"Well," Mr. Worton started, leaning forward with interlocked fingers, "the main focus remains riding the wave. They have no case. Their scapegoat pursuits can only take them so far, ma'am."
"That's my point," I clarified. "For the supposedly lacking evidence they have, the case is still focused on me. Next week is November, and it feels like there's hardly been any progress at all."
"With all due respect, Ms. Vaycker, an FBI investigation continues as long as the painting remains missing."
"Yes, I'm aware, Mr. Worton. The Widow is now on their top ten list of unsolved art crimes. They won't be forgetting it anytime soon; a fact I'm very clear on. You're missing my point. The investigation itself is not the concern. The concern is that it's been almost two months of me being the primary suspect. At what point do I get cleared? The investigation will continue... but how long will I be in the middle of it?"
An uncomfortable pause cloaked the room, tugging at the throats of these predators and warning them I wasn't prey. I wasn't a spared ally; I held the leashes.
"I was informed this firm is the best for clients of my nature," I continued. "Yet my accounts are still locked, my finances are still being investigated, and my name is all over agent's desks. The media's moved on to the next scandal, but I haven't. When will your team get a handle on this? I can't start damage control when damage is actively still being inflicted."
"Ms. Vaycker, as you said, it's only been a month," Ms. Filbright interjected. "The government hasn't completed anything expeditiously since its formation. The issue isn't our work or effectiveness, but rather who we are dealing with. Our appeal concerning your finances was denied, and while the new one's being processed, the government will continue holding your accounts."
"Lord knows how long it will take them to finish that," Mr. Worton grumbled. "Government analysts can't tell a Ponzi from a pyramid."
"So, what are we looking at? Weeks until I'm cleared? Months? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"What I'm saying is our firm is the best you could ask for, Ms. Vaycker," Ms. Filbright said firmly. "We'll finish the FBI side of things as soon as their competence allows it. For now, we need to focus on the public relations side of things."
"Why? How does that relate to my case?"
Of course I wanted to fix my reputation—but why did its ruins matter to my legal team? If I was going to court, I would understand wanting to hold public favor, but I hadn't been arrested. Court wasn't in the room, let alone on the table. So why would they care about my condemnation outside the eyes of the law?
"It's a contingency plan. The more you're viewed as the victim, the better your chances are of getting this sorted quickly. Look, ma'am, judges won't want to help you if the public's crying for your head."
Mr. Worton jumped in. "But if the public's looking at the FBI as incompetent, blind dogs after the wrong squirrel, the FBI will be encouraged to turn their attention elsewhere."
"Ms. Vaycker, right now the government is being seen as a group of white-collar suck-ups holding out justice because of your status. The public doesn't like that. They're clinging onto this even months later, and that view will make third parties and the FBI pursue you even harder to prove a point. But if the government's actions are seen as overbearing and unjust to someone believed to be innocent, they'll both back off much easier," Ms. Filbright revealed. "It can be a good thing to have the situation play out on a public stage, but only if done right. Let the masses put pressure on the governing body that serves them. Encourage them, but make them think it was their idea."
My fingers slowly tapped on the table. I'd woken with a fire in my veins that morning, an itchy restlessness of waned patience and festered anger. The same I'd felt with Graves, but the opposite of what I'd felt with Simon and August. I'd tossed and turned all night. I'd remembered August's anger at my compliance, Camila's urges to fight back, and Simon's reminder people would talk anyway. I'd remembered Daniel's combative demeanor, Geraldine's withdrawal, and how something had changed in between all of it.
How a switch had flipped—or how a seed had grown. Because something had bloomed. It was great, throttling vines of growth.
My fury had been further fed by the barrage of online commentary I'd made the mistake of looking at that morning. I wasn't sure why I'd done it, what'd prompted me to log back on to the churning internet, but the explosion had burned my already scarred exterior. I'd already cut off my nose to spite my face, but the burns of judgement seared me to a furious defense. Did the crimes really warrant the punishment I'd received? Were my loved ones right? Camila, August, Carrie? Should I be pounding on the walls of the box I was put in and howling for an explanation? For a public that'd had little to base their opinions on, they'd done a bitterly thorough job. There hadn't been enough to tear me to shreds, but they'd done it anyway, and it wasn't fair.
It wasn't the original accusation itself that bothered me so much. That I could understand. I knew why the public was initially led, or chose, to believe the media's offered versions of the truth, whatever said truths may be. I also understood some knew the truth better than most. And who hadn't been quick to form a conclusion about a celebrity, news article, or event? Let those with no stones be the first to foster upset. I wasn't faultless, so while the first judgment left a bad taste in my mouth, I couldn't say I didn't understand. No, what made upset me was everything that'd come after. The ruins of the life I mourned had helped harden my resolve.
My mouth twisted as it encouraged them. "What's the plan?"
The smile adopted by every lawyer, paralegal, and intern in the room was simultaneous. It bordered on creepy; it was the copy-and-pasted leers of loosened leashes and hungry bobcats.
"Well, ma'am, you've been silent," Mr. Worton began.
"Practically a ghost. No interviews, pictures, posts, nothing," Ms. Filbright jumped in. "Other than the initial fiasco with all those reporters, of course—which certainly didn't help your image."
"We want to turn the tide on the narrative."
"Move away from 'rich kid gone wrong' to—"
"—something like 'misunderstood innocent takes the blame'."
"Use the media to our advantage, not the other way around," Ms. Filbright urged. "We have some ideas how to do it."
I thought again of all the horrible labels that'd been pasted on my name since the theft. I thought of the former coworkers who'd chatted to blogs, joined online tirades, and willingly handed out pitchforks. I'd called them my friends... where had I gone wrong? When had I given justification for their actions to be so brutal? When had I erred in my time at the museum that loyalty was nonexistent? It pained me in the pockets of my soul that were supposed to be filled with warmth. Betrayal was the most poisonous hurt of them all.
"I want this handled," I ordered. "Thoroughly."
They smiled again, and the wily plan was laid.
When I left their office, the bitter dredges of a long day were slinking away into lurking shadows. It was still unseasonably cold, but I'd heard rumors the highly-anticipated, usual winter weather would be returning soon. Usually, we had the type of winter that didn't go beyond light sweaters, and I couldn't wait; my cashmere felt flimsy under the strange, encroaching frost. I cursed at the dipped sun and hurried to my car, diving in to crank the heat far more than realistically needed.
My fingers were stiff as I texted Simon. We'd exchanged numbers the night before, but it felt strange to text him. Too casual. It didn't help that I wasn't sure what was truly happening between us. The more distance that grew from our time at the gallery, and the more time that trekked on, the more suspicious I was. What was his goal with me? Sure, I'd offered to show him some security around town, but he could do that without me. Sure, he wanted to know more about art, but he could do that without me. Sure, he wanted to learn more about the museum, but—
I paused, my hands frozen over my phone. Simon's words rang through my mind.
"But most important of all, you know the museum. I'd be naive to think you don't know Whitehill top to bottom, both the building and the family."
Wait. Did he mean...?
Had that son of a bitch slipped up? Was he saying he thought I was the thief? Did he really think that? That the media was right, and I was the one who'd get away with it?
Of course I would.
But nobody should've thought I did it just because I was there.
And Simon barely knew me. I hated assumptions. It would infuriate me if this was a game to him, and that suspicion was boring holes in my composure. Was Simon testing waters, pinpointing vulnerabilities, and trying to get information to better his job performance? Was he some Nancy Drew-wannabe sniffing out mysteries to feed his ego, like I'd feared he would be? I cursed again, flinging my phone and slamming my hands on the wheel.
Simon's other words rang out, too. The ones where he said he didn't think I was a criminal mastermind. No, he wouldn't think that if he thought he was onto me. There was nothing 'mastermind' about being played.
It was another reminder I couldn't trust anyone. I couldn't count how many "did you do it?" texts I'd received since the theft. Some from close friends, some from distant cousins, some from people who must've broken laws to get my number, but all the same. So faulty in their loyalty, so eager to run to the press with exclusives, so bloodthirsty for golden tickets of confessions. Did they really think I'd text back a confirmation? Was I just viewed as an idiot by everyone?
Oh, I wanted to scream. The anger had been building all day; it rumbled and roared and clawed at my throat. It'd been easier to distance myself from what I knew to be true when I wasn't seeing it. Because I'd known of the online chatter, of the cursed words of former coworkers, of the hungry appetites of former friends. I'd been able to compartmentalize it when it was ignored. It was like current events; if I wasn't seeing it, feeling it, or hearing it, then it wasn't so bad. I'd been strong for a while, but I had fallen to temptation, and I'd allowed myself to be sucked back in. But perhaps I was over being sad. Being hurt. Being betrayed. Perhaps I was done reassuring others I understood, had expected it, or was okay.
Maybe I wasn't okay.
Maybe August was right.
I reached for my phone and finished off a brief text to Simon saying I'd need to reschedule. I didn't say when; I kept it succinct and professional. I hardly looked at his polite and annoyingly sweet response back. Instead, I called my posse of support and summoned them to my apartment. We needed to discuss my strategy for the implementation of the lawyer's plan, because I'd need their expertise to pull it off.
On the drive back to my apartment, I felt the situation like a rock in my shoe. Simon was better off, I reasoned, far away from me and my issues. I didn't know his reasoning or whether he'd been telling the truth or not, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter if I felt something with him or wondered if he felt it, too. It would've been selfish, anyway. Keeping him away would only protect us both. He wasn't a distraction, he was a ticking time bomb, and I couldn't defuse him. I could only run. An explosion of heat between us, or him rocking my world, would leave too much damage on my walls.
So I'd keep him as a fantasy of another life, another time, another me—but that was all he would be.
August was in the parking lot of my apartment building when I arrived. I was surprised; the lawyer's office was closer than the museum, and I should've gotten there first. He had to have rushed over. I felt another pang of guilt, but brushed it away with the delicate fingers of expert hands.
"August?" I called, stepping out of Agatha.
His head whipped around from where he leaned on his car. He was speaking rapidly into his phone, but his worried eyes found mine and he quickly strode over. By the time he reached me, he'd ended the call and pocketed the phone. His hands instantly reached to engulf me, pulling me into his contagious warmth and away from the cold.
"Eleanor, what happened?" His breaths were rapid above my head, hands tight across my back. "What did the lawyers say?"
"I'm fine. Everything's fine," I promised, muffled into his long coat. "I just need some help."
He pulled away. Concern was still prominent in his gaze and furrowed brows. "Anything."
"C'mon, it's too cold out here. Let's go inside. Lena and Carrie should be coming over soon."
"That's not reassuring at all," August remarked, still tense in his shoulders. I only smiled in response and ushered him into my apartment.
"Alright, what is it?" he asked as soon as we settled. "You're worrying me."
"Don't be worried, I just need—"
"El?" Carrie's voice interrupted me as she let herself into my apartment. The wrinkle on her own brow was evident from across the room. Her pinched gaze found me on the couch. "What's going on?"
"Come in. I was just about to tell August about my meeting with the lawyers today."
She sucked in a breath, shrugging off her coat and throwing it on the chaise. She nodded in greeting to August as she settled on the couch beside me. A look of realization was ever-deepening the crease between her brows. "Oh, right. I forgot you had a meeting with them today. That's explains why mom and dad were acting like that."
I nodded. Sarcasm was worming its way in. "Yeah, I'm sure they got the updated plan. I imagine they're thrilled. Actually, I was hoping for some help from you guys with the plan we came up with. Lena's on her way, too."
"What kind of help?"
"She's being cryptic," August informed Carrie. He still looked anxious, his curls getting fluffier and fluffier every time he ran his fingers through them.
"I am not! When Lena gets here I'll explain everything. I hate repeating myself."
But then again, I'd be repeating myself a lot from then on. It'd be copy-and-paste Eleanor for a while; a robot version I needed to meticulously program.
Neither of them were happy with my withholding of information, but I stayed firm. Instead, we chatted about Carrie's so-called boyfriend Scott, August's little sister's recovery from her fall over the family dog, and our plans to watch the newest season of Lena's show. When Lena finally arrived, I was ready to inform the cavalry of my strategy.
"What's going on?" Lena asked, unwrapping her scarf. She stared anxiously between the three of us.
"That's what we're all waiting to hear," Carrie replied. There was a suspicion in her eyes, and I met her piercing gaze, hoping to silently reassure her I was making the right call.
"I met with my lawyers today. They want me to go on the offensive. They said my silence could be causing bigger issues for me."
"Finally," August groaned. "You should've been on the offensive ages ago. You've just stood by while people slaughtered your name."
"I agree. I get withdrawing from the public eye, but I think in this case it's just doing more damage," Lena concurred.
"Well, I'm finally listening. I'm ready to put my foot down."
A scoff tumbled from my sister's mouth. "So literally everyone has been telling you to stop letting yourself be steamrolled, but you don't listen until a group of lawyers tell you the exact same thing?" Carrie accused, rolling her eyes. Then, seriousness broke through her hard, shell-like sunshine as she sat forward. "Are you sure about this, El? If you do this wrong, you could chase everyone further into suspicion of you. It could negate everything you've done so far."
"It'll be a lot of work. Look, I don't like lying any more than I have to, and I've been trying to let things play out, but I... I don't know how much more I can take."
"It's hardly been two months," Carrie scoffed. "When we talked about it, you knew it could be years until things cleared up enough for you to walk away."
"And it's a lot easier to talk about things than it is to live them, Carrie. Plans change."
No one responded, and I looked from person to person in stubborn challenge. From August, who looked thrilled about my plan, to Lena, who seemed fairly neutral, and then to Carrie. Carrie didn't look convinced, but her loyalty ran deep.
"Fine. What's the plan? You've got the war cry down, but what are you actually going to do?" she snarked.
"Turn the tide and hurry the process up. I need to be declared innocent so I can move on from this. If they want a story, they'll get one."
"Sounds good to me. We need this sorted out," August agreed. "The museum needs you."
I didn't reply to that, ignoring it as I headed to the kitchen to gather supplies for a long night. If the four of us with our sprawling web of connections and hands full of strings couldn't pull off a media coup, nobody could.
I'd already given the world a villain, especially by being found on scene, but I wasn't happy with how quickly they'd agreed on the label. It was a bandwagon too many people had jumped on. I wasn't looking for revenge, I was looking to fill the role I'd been handed, the role I'd accepted. They wanted media manipulation? They wanted a story?
I'd give them a story.
I gazed around the room at my ranks. "Let's get to work."
The paranoia's seeping in! Will Eleanor spiral or can she turn the tides? The pull of suspicion, the weight of obsession, the fury of betrayal. Sink or swim, and she's jumping in! Thoughts on the story so far?
- H
[*All usernames are fake as of time of publishing*]