There’s something small in my hand. I still have the little key that fell out of the portrait frame. I quickly close my fist over it and shove it into my back pocket along with the Wizards’ key. Why do I feel the need to hide it? No one says anything. Maybe they don’t notice in all the craziness.
Mom sits next to Mrs. Thackeray. She’s crying again.
“Rosemary, I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed. I want the truth, right now,” she says in her weepiest voice. At those words, my throat is full of sand and my tongue turns to plastic inside my mouth, like it will never be able to form words again. I stare into Mom’s red, puffy eyes. She always has this effect on me.
“We all want to hear what you have to say,” Mrs. Thackeray murmurs. I look up, surprised. Across the table from me, she sits hunched over in her chair, hugging Marguerite’s broken portrait to her scrawny chest, and she’s somehow smaller. Even her voice is different. It’s quiet and unsure.
“Well, Rosemary?” Mom says, snuffling. “What’s going on? And tell the truth, this time!” she says, swiping away a tear. “You obviously were going into that apartment, weren’t you, but you refused to admit it. No wonder that man was so angry! What did you do?” She continues to sob, softly, shoulders shaking.
I stare at a bowl of cold sauce that looks like lumpy vomit and I hate her. What did I do? Thomas was about to smash my face with his huge fist and it’s my fault? I can’t even look at her. So, I swallow, and look at Mrs. T. in front of me, who reminds me of a deflated balloon, crumpled and empty. My stomach twists for a second with my familiar worry that no words will come out right, but I know I have to speak.
“I didn’t mean to steal from you,” I tell her, wincing at how bad my words slur themselves together, like all the sounds are in such a rush that they trip all over each other as they leave my mouth.
“Ah. Well . . .” Mrs. T. begins to say, but her voice trails off. She seems at a loss for words. “But you did steal?” she asks, as if to confirm what she already knows. “All those paintings?”
My heart speeds up. “Yeah,” I say. I hear Mom gasp, and hurry to add, “I didn’t plan to.” Words come out a little clearer this time. I’m trying hard, now, because I want her to understand. “I only went in to find the cat. I took the paintings because I thought you were stealing them. I didn’t know you owned the place,” I say, pausing to clear my throat. “I’ll tell you where I hid the stuff. I kept going back to find letters, because I wanted to know about Marguerite’s weak words,” I add haltingly.
“Weak words?” Mrs. T. stammers, looking at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It says that in one of the letters.” But Mrs. T. still looks blank. “Wait,” I say, rising to my feet.
“Stop!” Mom barks. “You’re not going anywhere, young lady!”
“Mom,” I plead. “Please!”
“I’d like to know what she means,” a soft voice says from behind me, speaking English. We all turn to Ansel, who was watching and listening the whole time. “Please, let her go.”
Mom shrugs, rolls her eyes, and motions for me to go. I run upstairs to my suitcase, still waiting beside Sylvie and émile’s front door. Returning with the ribbon-bound bundles of paper, I place them on the table in front of Mrs. Thackeray, who shoves dishes aside to make room. Everyone moves closer. I show them the first letter I read.
“Des mots faibles. Weak words.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Thackeray sighs.
“You understand?” I ask.
“Perhaps more than you might think,” she says, looking up at me. Her beady eyes are watery. Before I can ask her what she means, Mrs. T. adds, “Did you find any jewelry, Rosemary?”
I look blankly at her.
Mrs. Thackeray tiredly rubs her eyes and continues. “My grandmother’s jewels were supposed to be worth a fortune. We found a list of everything in her records.” She holds Marguerite’s portrait in front of her and gazes sadly at it. “We were convinced we’d find jewels worth millions, but we found nothing. Thomas was most upset. Times have been hard,” she finishes, speaking in a near whisper.
“I didn’t see any jewelry,” I say. I flinch at how the word sounds, like a drunk slurring syllables together. Mrs. T. looks right into my eyes for a moment and nods.
“I believe you. I also believe, Rosemary, that you meant well when you took these paintings. I suppose you thought you were saving them.”
“Saving them?” Mom blurts in an angry, incredulous voice. “Oh, I don’t think so!”
She sniffs loudly and leans forward, glaring at me. I gape at her in shock. Her mouth is set into a thin line.
“Apparently my daughter Rosemary has decided to become a thief,” she says through clenched teeth. “She stole a painting from her best friend’s brother and used it to fool us all into thinking she had some artistic talent. Then, she stole another painting from someone here, likely from that apartment, and sent it to me in Idaho, claiming it was hers. Our little art thief apparently doesn’t recognize the work of Gauguin.”
“What?” Sylvie spluttered. Even Ansel exclaims out loud.