You can promise to stick to a story but to what degree will Olive and Owen really adhere to it?
And to what degree will they stray from it?
I don’t know the answers to these questions any more than I know the answers to whether or not we will end up in California.
Now, there are three of us in on this and I am not sure how much Owen shares our interest in cloudless skies, blue water, jagged mountains, and towering palm trees.
Lost in my own thoughts, I don’t see them walking up to me until it’s too late.
29
Olive
When we see him…
I don’t want to follow him.
I want to trust him, and I do.
But Owen says he’s going to do it whether I come with him or not.
I don’t have a choice.
I come in protest but with full certainty that we have nothing to worry about.
Nicholas might have lied to me about certain things but his actions have proven him be a reliable partner.
He would never do anything to hurt me.
That’s why standing here over the railing and watching their meeting puts tears in my eyes.
It’s Art Hedison, an FBI agent, who has investigated me before.
He didn’t find any evidence but that didn’t stop him from questioning me.
When Owen asks me why I’m crying, I can’t bring myself to lie.
I’m too much in shock by what I am seeing.
How could Nicholas do this to me? How could he betray me like this?
My ears ring and the mall’s cacophony of sounds all blend into one.
Owen tugs on my shirt a few times before I finally register a thing.
“Who is that?” he asks over and over again. “You have to tell me everything.”
“His name is Art Hedison,” I say slowly, my vision focusing in on the two strangers below.
I know both of their names, and I used to think I was in love with one of them.
“He’s an FBI agent,” I say. “He investigated the other paintings I stole.”
“What other paintings?” Owen asks.
I look at him.
His eyes are wide with inquiry and his face is flushed.
He knows nothing about my old life because I thought it would be better that way.
But now, it hardly matters.
“That’s why Nicholas wanted to work with me,” I say as a matter of fact. “I knew how to break into safes and steal paintings and that’s what we did.”
“So, you knew about this?” Owen asks, his eyebrows raising almost all of the way up to the top of his forehead.
“I had no idea,” I say quietly.
My words are slow and detached.
I’m here and yet I’m not.
The world is moving in slow motion and everything is happening to someone else.
“What is he doing?” Owen asks.
That question I do not have an answer to.
“We have to go. If the FBI knows about this then…” His words trail off.
I look down at the bench again.
Art and Nicholas talk without looking at each other.
From our vantage point one level up, we can see practically all of the way over to Macy’s on one end and Nordstrom’s on the other.
There are no other agents anywhere near them.
I look around at the faces and people gathering around him and us.
Most are shoppers coming in and out of stores. I focus on the ones who are stationary.
They are the ones who are likely undercover.
There are moms near the playground. Some are chatting with their friends, others have their heads buried in their phones.
There are two groups of teenagers gushing over each other’s purchases.
And then there are the lone kiosk salespeople, waiting patiently for someone to walk by and give them attention.
Any of these people can be an undercover FBI agent.
I look closer for signs.
Are they talking into their wrists? Are they looking around a little bit too much?
No, surprisingly, they are not.
Owen keeps trying to tell me more and then he starts to tug on my shirt to get me to leave.
I brush him off both times and focus my attention on Nicholas.
After a few more words, Art moves the rolled up painting from Nicholas’ bag to his and walks away.
I hold my breath.
This is when someone would charge at Nicholas.
Or at me. Or at Owen.
A moment later, I realize that I had shut my eyes.
I open them and wait.
Nicholas continues to sit on the bench.
Is he waiting for something? For someone?
More time passes.
Owen tries to pull me away again.
“We have to go,” he whispers into my ear over and over.
But I wait.
If someone was going to arrest us, they would do it already.
The painting has been exchanged. Whatever deal Nicholas made with Art is complete.
But nothing happens.
Nicholas sits on the bench for close to twenty minutes before he finally gets up and walks back to his car.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask Owen, but he is just as bewildered as I am.
“Let’s follow him,” Owen says when we get to my car.
But I have a better idea.
I start the engine and drive straight to our hotel room.
Owen argues with me all the way over.
When Nicholas took off this morning, he left his stuff there including the Monet.
Owen is mad at me for letting Nicholas go, but I tune him out. As soon as we get to my hotel room, I want to go straight inside but unfortunately the housekeepers are right in the middle of their daily cleaning.
I tell them that I have a headache and ask if they mind cutting it short.
When they leave, I ask Owen to close the door and lock it. Walking over to the dresser below the mounted television, I hear my heart pound through my chest.
I reach my hand behind it and pull out the painting.
“What’s that?” Owen asks, just as the door starts to open.
“It’s the other painting we took from that house,” I tell him. “It’s a sketch that Monet made for one of his lilies. At least I think so.”
The door creaks when it opens. Nicholas comes in.
“I guess you told him,” he says quietly.
30
Olive
When he comes over…
The arrogant expression on his face makes me want to punch him.
Who the hell does he think he is coming here and acting like I am the one who is doing something wrong?
“Who did you give that painting to?” I blurt out.
His smile vanishes and his eyes narrow.
“Owen, will you give us a minute?” he asks, holding the door open with his hand.
Owen doesn’t move from the sofa and just waits.
“No, he can stay,” I answer for him.
“Owen, please.”
“I want him to stay,” I insist.
When I glance over, I see that Owen has no intention of leaving me alone.
“Okay, that’s fine,” Nicholas says after a moment.
His words are careful and methodical.
He takes a few more steps closer to me but stops about an arm’s length away.