Under the Lies

by Green, Sarah E.

  And then—a click.

  The lights flicker on.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe.

  At first, I do nothing but stare.

  Stare and not comprehend what’s before me.

  But it’s not what I thought would grab my attention first.

  An entire wall is made up of windows, very much like the ones at Noah’s, looking down on the casino floor.

  “How did I not notice this when I was here?” I spin around to see Noah’s still by the light switch, blank-faced.

  “This town is an illusion. You only see what we want you to see.” He walks toward me. “We can see you, but you can’t see us.”

  Chills caress my arms, my neck.

  Breathe, Sayer, breathe.

  My eyes stray from the window to take in more of the room.

  It’s a museum… if a museum housed stolen artwork.

  Paintings are framed on the wall, some trapped in glass casings. Vases and busts sit on ornately carved podiums.

  Little plaques are situated beneath each piece. Getting closer, I see that they state the day they were stolen and by who. Chills brush my skin as I run my finger along the closest:

  The Baron, 1975.

  I trace over each curve and line of every letter, running my nail along the numbers. It’s here right in front of me, but it still doesn’t feel tangible.

  “Why are these all here?”

  “It’s a holding facility of sorts,” Noah explains. “Where we keep the paintings we want to sell, display the ones we don’t. It’s like our own private museum.”

  My mind can’t wrap around this. It’s a fantasyland, a nightmare. I’m still sleeping. I have to be. There’s no other reason.

  But no, this is the real world where stories don’t have happily ever afters. Grandpas aren’t only cute little old men who wear newsboy caps and give you chocolate from their sweater pockets.

  They’re liars and cheats and sneaks.

  “How did I not know?” I ask around the shattering of my heart.

  “Because—”

  I whirl around to face Noah, who I didn’t notice had moved closer to me. He’s right behind me. “I swear to God, Noah if you say it’s because he didn’t want me to know, I will fucking scream.”

  I don’t need excuses. I need time to process this.

  “Just—” I lower my voice, poorly hiding the frustration in it. “Just let me be. For ten minutes.”

  I need to get away. Not from this room, but from him.

  As I walk farther into the room, past paintings that have my eyes bulging, Noah calls, “You run, and I chase you.”

  I turn around, walking backward. “I’m not running. I’m hiding.” There’s a difference.

  He doesn’t respond so I carry on. Some of these paintings have been missing for years. Decades, maybe even centuries for a few.

  I wander until I find a little alcove. It’s small, with only enough space for half of my body.

  Bringing my knees to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees as my brain struggles to digest all this.

  The stories of the town are true. A truth bomb that never should’ve gone off.

  The Baron.

  My grandfather.

  God. I bang my forehead against my knees.

  How many signs were there that I missed? How many times did I feel left out when he took Harlow on a “business” trip all over the world, even when I was the one that loved art and painting and had never been anywhere my parents didn’t want me to go.

  Countless.

  Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to travel like Brin, who could travel free of her parents.

  Mine were the overbearing protective type, they would go out to do things while I was to stay home and focus on school.

  Picking my head up, I see a painting that startles me. More than the rest. I know that painting. Intimately.

  And underneath it sits the man I know intimately.

  Noah watches me like he’s waiting for me to break. “Your ten minutes are up.”

  My lips twitch in a sad smile. “Always so punctual.” I sound so far away, eyes jumping above his head. “He made me paint that painting, you know. Over and over one weekend.”

  My granddad had just returned home after a week in Paris, looking ragged from travel when he came by my house to pick me up.

  I was so excited to spend time with him just the two of us. It had been so long since we’d done that.

  This was back when I was in seventh grade and seeing my granddad started to become a little more infrequent when I felt his time was given more to Harlow.

  And boy, Harlow was so angry that night he picked me up. I can still recall how loud her feet stomped up the stairs when she found out she wasn’t invited.

  Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop grinning the entire drive to his little apartment.

  It wasn’t until we were eating dinner that he broke away from the table to pull out a circular tube from his suitcase.

  “I want you to paint this,” he said. “Just for fun.”

  He didn’t need to tell me twice. One of the reasons I loved coming over was because he would always have me paint his findings.

  It was the best way to learn, he always said.

  That particular painting was called The Girl Lost in the Sunflowers.

  “It’s yours,” Noah tells me.

  I barely hear him. “What?”

  “This painting” —he points above his head— “is one you painted.”

  “What happened to the original?” I focus on that. If I focus on the fact that I basically did a forgery I’m afraid I’ll go into cardiac arrest.

  “He fenced it.”

  Fenced. So technical. I’ve heard it before on crime shows and movies. Basically, it means, my granddad got rid of it. Sold it on some kind of illegal market.

  I suck in a breath. It’s shaky. Like my hands as I rub my face.

  “How are you doing?”

  Such a simple question for such a loaded answer.

  “Well. Let’s see.” I scoot out from the alcove, closer to him. “I just found out my granddad is a thief and was a crime lord—”

  “He wasn’t a crime lord.”

  I spike a brow. “Oh, I’m sorry. What would you call it then?” I lean over, squinting my eyes. “What is your role here? You said he left you this. What are you?”

  “The mastermind.”

  Despite everything, I snort. He’s so serious. “That doesn’t sound cheesy at all.”

  He doesn’t react. “We all have roles here, Sayer. That one happens to be mine.”

  Mastermind, I muse over. It’s fitting. The ruthless and cunning businessman is in charge of all this. He’s the one that gets shit done. And has the money and resources to keep it hidden.

  Connections stuffed in his back pocket.

  And isn’t that how I always thought of him on the chessboard? The king. The mastermind.

  “What about the others?”

  “Thea’s a hacker. The tech wiz.” She told me she did IT work…

  He pushes off the wall, scooting closer to me. “Reeve is the forger.” Right, he did mention that some of the paintings at the art gallery were done by him. “And Gabe’s our hitman.”

  I choke. “Excuse me? Hitman? Like he kills people for money?”

  “He does it for The Underground,” Noah states as if it is no big deal. “When we need him too, which isn’t too often. Mostly he’s the brute muscle.”

  Gabe. Out of everything that’s been dropped on me today, learning Gabe is basically an assassin is up there with my granddad being a thief.

  Gabe, who wrote poetry in the margins of his notebook in that class we shared back in prep school. Gabe, who reads leather bound books at parties.

  The quietest ones are the most dangerous, I remind myself.

  “What about my sister? What did she do?”

  “She was the thief on jobs.”

  Now I’m confused. “Aren’t you all thieves?”
<
br />   It feels weird to say. Almost unreal. A fantasy that I never wanted to be in.

  If Noah’s frustrated by my question, he doesn’t show it. He scoots even closer, grabbing my ankle, tethering us together.

  “We are, but when we go out on jobs, we each have a role. A task to carry out that best suits our skills. And your sister would always be the one to do the actual stealing.” He looks down at his hand around my ankle. “She was the best.”

  Bitter jealousy stabs at me when hearing the pride in which he speaks on my sister’s skills. I want to shake myself, that’s nothing to be jealous about.

  No more words are exchanged between us as we sit in the middle of the room, surrounded by stolen and counterfeit art.

  Noah doesn’t push, doesn’t bother me to share my thoughts. He just sits with me as I process.

  For so long, my entire life really, I’ve wanted to know what went on with my sister and her friends, was always curious if the rumors around town were true, but now I kind of wish I didn’t.

  It feels like a spoiler to a book, where the build-up is so intense, so consuming, you’ve been squirming in anticipation only for someone else to tell you what happens. Ruining the illusion to the point where you now don’t want to see the end through.

  That’s how it feels as I look at Noah.

  And it twists my stomach tighter than I’ve ever felt.

  I feel numb as he pulls us up, as he tells me we’re going to go home.

  Trailing behind him, I feel like broken glass someone has poorly pieced back together. One wrong breath and I’ll break.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Noah picks his head up from his hands. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, a glass of golden liquid beside him.

  Coming back to Haven Harbor was supposed to make me feel closer to my grandfather, but I’m further away than ever.

  The man I knew was not the man he was.

  Noah knows the man he was.

  He’s watching me now, assessing me. I cross my arms, staring at him blankly. Expectantly.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks, carefully.

  Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.

  The man I grew up with now feels like a stranger. I didn’t know Jack Brooks like I thought I did. But Noah did.

  Noah knows more about my granddad than I ever will.

  I step closer to the couch, to him.

  It’s been hours since we got back, hours that have felt like days. Minutes that have passed like seconds.

  Noah pats the cushion next to him.

  Slowly, I lower myself next to him, pressing my back into the arm of the leather couch. Facing him. There are centimeters between us, space he can easily eat up, but he doesn’t.

  That doesn’t stop his penetrating gaze from hooking mine. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to understand the Jack Brooks you knew,” I finally admit in a whisper. “I want to understand.”

  Noah studies my face. Worry creeps into his expression. At any other time, I would’ve melted at the sight of vulnerability peeking through, but right now all I wonder is if my face looks as drained, as empty as I feel.

  “Your sister introduced us,” he starts. “But Baron took me under his wing after the second time we met.”

  “Why?” Why did he take a liking to Noah?

  The corner of Noah’s lip twitches up. “I stole from him. I remember how I didn’t even have a reason. I just saw his wallet in his jacket pocket and swiped it. There’s this thrill with getting away with something, something that you’re taught to be wrong. A high that no drug can touch. That’s what I felt when I stole his wallet.”

  “What happened after?”

  “He told me you can’t con a con man and slowly, he started to introduce Harlow and me into this new world.” He rolls his head with a heavy sigh. “I’ve always been bored of high society. There was nothing exciting about it. Everything was too superficial for me. Baron gave me a place to find myself.”

  My eyebrow raises. “He taught you how to steal and through that you found yourself?”

  Noah nods. “He gave me something to work toward. He gave me a challenge.”

  I nod, still feeling lost.

  “He also asked me to protect you.”

  My eyes snap to his. “When?”

  “The night he died.”

  A slice of pain slashes my heart, remembering holding his hand as he drew his last breath.

  “He made me swear to keep you safe.”

  I’m a little insulted he didn’t think I could protect myself, but I know my grandfather has always seen me as a butterfly in a field of wasps.

  I can’t stop myself from thinking is that why Noah agreed to protect me? Because of my grandfather? Somehow that makes the pain in my chest sting worse.

  “It’s not.” Noah’s voice is low.

  “What’s not?”

  “I haven’t upheaved my life for the past several weeks just because of my promise.” He levels me a serious look. “I went a year ignoring it. But then you came back…you came back and I couldn’t ignore you. Even if it wasn’t for Baron or your sister leaving, I still would’ve found a way to you.”

  I still would’ve found a way to you.

  My breathing feels heavy, each breath tighter than the last with Noah’s admission.

  I still would’ve found a way to you.

  Almost hesitantly, a move so unsure for Noah, he places his hand on my knee. I stare at it, barbells pressing on my chest.

  It’s too much. So when my phone goes off, I welcome the reprieve. Only to wish I hadn’t as my eyes skim over the text message.

  Groaning, I toss my phone to the floor.

  “What?” Noah asks.

  “Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend.”

  He quirks a brow, looking intrigued. He’s not going to be looking like that after I tell him the news.

  “Don’t get too excited, big boy. We’re going to my parents’.”

  It’s interesting watching someone’s expression change as subtly as Noah’s and know that little change has a bigger impact than he’ll reveal. “Why?” One word. Clipped and cold.

  “My mother has decided to throw me a birthday party.”

  And that might be more startling news than finding out my grandfather was a renowned art thief.

  An art thief. Wow. The more I think about it, the more I say it, the more I come to terms with it. But that doesn’t mean I still don’t have questions. I have so many.

  But I don’t want to talk anymore.

  With careful fingers I reach up to take Noah’s glasses off, placing them on the coffee table.

  This morning I woke up so happy. So content. But all of a sudden I feel like I did my first week back. Wandering with no destination.

  Until Noah.

  He gave me a destination that wasn’t on any map. An off-road I don’t mind getting lost on.

  But right now, I feel stuck in a ditch. I don’t want that. I want to be back on the drive.

  Usually, he’s the one that feels so far away. But now his secrets are out. Oh, I’m sure he has more, but right now I don’t care about those. This time it’s me, I’m the one with the wall up.

  A disconnect has been created between us and I want it gone.

  My hands go to his shoulders, climbing into his lap. Straddling him.

  “What’re you doing?” He’s cautious, hands going to the back of my thighs.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore.” My lips find his. Tasting him, needing him.

  He lets me take the lead, letting me guide…until my tongue traces his lips, seeking entrance. With a groan, Noah flips me onto the couch, covering his body with mine.

  Devouring me.

  This kiss feels different. Feels free.

  And I lose myself in it. Lose myself in him. Sitting up, I pull off my shirt, then Noah’s.

  Everything else is forgotten…at least for now.

&n
bsp; Twenty-five.

  A quarter of a century.

  That’s how long I’ve been alive as of today. Somehow I thought it would feel different. More revolutionary. Ground-breaking.

  Unfortunately for me, that happened a few days prior. Which I’m still trying to come to grips with.

  I’ve never cared about my birthday.

  Growing up it was a spectacle for my mother to plan some elaborate party that would somehow focus more on her than me.

  In fact, if it wasn’t for the party she’s throwing me, I would’ve had a pretty relaxing, if not a subtle day, with me staying in bed for most of it. Pan curled on one side and a box of chocolates Thea sent over on the other.

  Noah spent the morning with me although it wasn’t the kind of morning where we did a lot of talking. And after making me a breakfast of French toast and peach bellinis, he left. Saying he had some business he had to take care of.

  I was left to wonder exactly what kind of work he was going to take care of.

  Was it with his company or with his army? Legal or illicit?

  Whatever it was, Noah made it back in time to escort me to my birthday party at my childhood home.

  Which is where we are now.

  “Remind me why we’re here?” I ask Noah, who glares at everything. Personally offended with what he sees.

  When my mom said she was throwing me a birthday party, I didn’t expect her to roll out a gold carpet in my honor, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect some kind of decoration. Anything to show that it was a party for her daughter.

  Instead, I get a wait staff in tuxes and people dressed to the nines while a string band plays in the foyer.

  It doesn’t feel like a birthday.

  It feels like every other party my mother has thrown here. I don’t even know if any of my friends are going to be here. So far, I’ve only seen my parents’ friends. Some have even stopped to ask me where they were. Not an utterance of a happy birthday on their tongue.

  And now I can’t help but stare at the art that hangs on the walls, at the vases and china locked away in a curio cabinet, at the imported tile on the ground.

  All the money your family has is dirty, Sayer. Blood money.

  Maybe that’s why I never liked having it. Not because I feel holier-than-thou, but because it never felt like mine to have.