It was unsettling but also kind of genius.
“Christian?” I turned at his odd lack of response and found him staring at something on the other end of the gallery.
I followed his gaze to where a young boy stood in the corner. He tugged insistently on what I assumed was his mother’s sleeve, but the woman was too busy fawning over the paintings and taking pictures to pay him any attention.
The boy’s chin wobbled, but instead of crying, he set his jaw and glared down the length of the gallery.
His eyes met Christian’s, who stared back with what almost looked like a sympathetic expression.
I placed a hand on his arm. “Christian,” I said, my voice softer. “Are you okay?”
He broke eye contact and turned his attention back to me. Tension poured off him in waves, and the set of his shoulders was visibly tighter than when we’d arrived.
“Yes.” His smile didn’t fool me for a second. “I’m fine.”
“Do you know him?” I gestured subtly in the boy’s direction, but when I looked again, he and his mother were gone.
“No. He…” Christian rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He reminded me of someone. That’s all.”
I had an inkling I knew who that someone was.
“Let’s get a drink,” I said. “I’ve seen all I wanted to see here.”
He didn’t argue.
We left the museum and made our way to a nearby cafe. Tucked on a quiet side street away from tourists, it was blessedly empty save for an older couple and a stunningly chic woman with a sleek black bob.
Christian and I took a seat in the corner of the outdoor dining area. The other customers were so far away we might as well be alone.
I waited until the server set our drinks on the table and disappeared into the kitchen before I spoke.
“The person that boy reminded you of. Was it you?” I kept my voice gentle. I didn’t want Christian to feel like I was ambushing him, but we’d dated long enough that I wasn’t as wary about broaching his past as I used to be.
He was naturally guarded, and I understood that. I didn’t go around sharing details about my personal life with anyone who would listen either. But if we were going to make our relationship work, he needed to feel as comfortable opening up to me as I did with him.
I thought Christian might brush off my question the way he always did, but he surprised me with an eventual nod.
“Before you ask, I wasn’t neglected as a child,” he said. “Not in the way you think. My parents weren’t abusive. Like I said, they were the quintessential American family, except…”
I waited, not wanting to push him.
“I told you my father was a software engineer. What I didn’t tell you was what he moonlighted as.” Christian leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever heard of the art thief, The Ghost?”
My eyes widened with surprise at the seemingly sudden shift in topic, but I nodded.
I’d learned about him in my art crime and law class at Thayer. The Ghost, so named because he’d stolen dozens of priceless artworks without leaving a trace of evidence behind, was one of the most notorious art thieves of the late twentieth century. He’d operated for almost a decade before the police finally caught him and shot him when he tried to flee.
The details of his death were murky, and the stolen artworks were never recovered.
I told you my father was a software engineer. What I didn’t tell you was what he moonlighted as.
Christian’s words replayed in my head, and my breath caught in my throat.
“Your father. He was…”
“Yes.”
The quiet word landed with the force of a nuclear bomb.
Oh my God.
The Ghost’s identity had never been publicly revealed, not even after his death. No one knew why, but rumors abounded. Some said he had a powerful family who paid off the authorities, others said his real persona was so ordinary that the authorities were embarrassed they hadn’t caught him before.
In the space of five seconds, Christian had just answered one of the biggest mysteries in the art world.
I was still wrapping my head around this explosive new piece of information when Christian continued.
“Ironically, he wasn’t the big art lover in the family. My mother was. He claimed he stole the paintings as proof of his love for her. His willingness to risk everything just to make her happy. You’d think she would try to talk him out of it, but she encouraged it. Sometimes, she even joined him. She loved the thrill and the idea that he would go to such extremes for her. They tried to hide what they were doing from me when I was younger, but I eventually caught on. There were too many coincidences between my father’s mysterious business trips and the dates the stolen art were reported on the news. When I confronted my father about it, he confessed.”
Christian gave me a hard smile. “Even as a child, I wasn’t the type to share the dirty details of my life with anyone. He knew he could trust me not to share his secret.”
My chest clenched at the thought of a young Christian being burdened with such a big secret.
Maybe his parents hadn’t been physically abusive, but it sounded like they hadn’t cared about his emotional or mental well-being at all.
“When I was thirteen, he went on another heist. Instead of a museum, he tried to rob some wealthy businessman’s house. The businessman had famously acquired a big art piece at auction, and my mom was desperate to have it. My father almost got away with it, but he tripped an alarm and got caught on his way out. He refused to surrender, and the police shot him when he tried to steal a gun off an officer and make another run for it. He died on the spot.”
“My mom lost it when she heard the news. Two days after my father died, she decided she couldn’t live without him and put a bullet in her own head. I’d been at school. My aunt came, called me into the principal’s office, and told me.” Another, more bitter smile cut across Christian’s face. “It’s like a fucked-up suburban version of Romeo and Juliet. Romantic, isn’t it?”
A deep, painful ache unfurled behind my ribs.
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to grow up in the family he’d grown up in, or to lose both parents at such a young age. I didn’t have the best relationship with mine, but at least they were alive.
“My mother would rather die than live without my father, but she was perfectly fine leaving her only son behind.” Christian’s caustic laugh singed my lungs. “A mother’s love is the greatest love of all, right? That’s bullshit.”
The ache spread burned behind my eyes.