The Blonde Bombshell

 by LN Alberts

*Inspired by Andy Warhol's Shot Sage Blue Marilyn*

Nothing brought me greater peace than the sound of paint spreading over canvas. Art was my only escape as a child from a world with oppressive expectations that breathed down my neck every day. I left the overcrowded London flats to hide-away a few short blocks from the Detroit River. Here I recreated the beauty of classics and modern masters alike. America offered both a respite and a lucrative opportunity I couldn’t ignore. The chance to see the original masters’ work in my own hands was an offer too tempting to decline.

For this project, I had the pleasure of delving into the silk-screening process again. Recreating Warhol meant experiments with acrylic paints and ink to find the perfect balance of coverage with a viscosity that smoothed through the mesh easily. I was excited to watch the dimension and detail I added to the backdrop with each layer of stencils.

I set the last silk-screen to the side and admired my work. This painting was a masterpiece. Once it was dry, only mass spectrometry would be able to discern the differences. A near perfect copy of the Warhol original. Marilyn’s vibrant pink face contrasting against the rich blue background resembled the impulsive coloring style of a small child with a new box of crayons, but Warhol’s purpose was clear. The pastels intentionally highlighted her trademark red lips. Marilyn’s red lipstick was a feminist statement of sexual liberation and Warhol celebrated it in this piece.

That was the magic of Warhol’s work. It was a delightful conglomeration of the unexpected. His ability to re-imagine a pop culture icon with a vibrant, often off-putting twist, riled the art world. Warhol’s preference for painting with heavily saturated colors and playing with intense contrasts always fascinated me. That’s why he was my favorite. He forced viewers to reckon with the very definition of art.

In a way, my work had the same effect. My forgeries elicited visceral reactions from both artists and their fans when they were discovered. Granted, that reaction tended toward outrage rather than admiration, but I didn’t mind. Art is meant to stir emotions after all. Even emotions that cut straight to the bone and left scars on the skin were valid responses to art.

That moment of discovery was the high I chased. The surge of endorphins that accompanied headlines filled with exclamation marks and large bold print. Stolen! Switched! Forgery! My ego was further bolstered by the admissions of curators and experts alike that they hadn’t recognized the fake on sight. The words “skilled” and “professional” were attached to my anonymous persona. Pure ecstasy.

A sharp knock at the door reminded me of the task at hand. This job would be the pinnacle of our careers if we succeeded. Every detail required meticulous consideration. There was very little room for error and no time to waste. Thankfully, acrylic paint dried fast and was much easier to handle than oils. It was less pungent too.

I peered through the peep-hole at his bright blue eyes and eager grin. Harry didn’t need to say a word as his thoughts were almost always etched onto his face. It was for the best that he worked in the shadows because he’d never pass scrutiny in the light of day. He was clever though and used his charismatic grin to his advantage.

I pulled the door open just wide enough for him to slip through. “You’re late again.”

“Not to worry. I brought sustenance!” He proudly revealed the Chinese takeout bag behind his back.

Those two statements weren’t remotely related, yet his response perfectly demonstrated what made Harry a talented thief. His charming, playful demeanor was a brilliant distraction during a job. He simply dismissed any concerns or questions someone would offer with a beaming smile and abruptly redirected the conversation. The man could talk his way out of even the tightest spot, so long as he held his temper.

“I already ate,” I said, gesturing at the table in invitation. “Now, did you collect the supplies? You acquired everything?”

He slid into the chair and began digging through his bag. Harry placed each container on the table with a flourish of wriggling fingers, as though he were a server at The Whitney uncovering the delicacies the chef prepared. Only once everything was presented did he acknowledge my questions. 

“Yes, of course. All handled, Bianca,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. 

“Even our transportation?” I settled into the chair opposite him. “This one is pretty large, Harry. Forty inches square.”

“Done and done. Are you sure you’re not hungry? There’s plenty here.” He swept a hand over the containers. “I’ll even share the fortune cookies.”

I shook my head and tucked my hands into my lap. Even if I were hungry, the dishes he was digging into looked far from appetizing. Harry preferred the thick, sweet sauces and overcooked noodles from the shop down the street to the fresh vegetables and light seasoning of a traditional Chinese dish. A typical American. 

“You realize fortune cookies are not even Chinese in origin, correct?” I couldn’t help myself. Historical facts lived like hook-worms inside of me. I still felt that childish compulsion to eagerly devour new information and was desperate to share it.

Harry shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it. So long as they taste good and supply me with vague promises of fame and riches, I’m happy.” 

As if to prove his point, Harry picked up one of the packages and pulled it apart. He cracked open a cookie, pinched the tiny paper inside, and drew it out carefully. Harry unfolded the message and smoothed it flat with far more concern than necessary.

“Let’s see here. ‘Your efforts have not gone unnoticed.’ Well, that’s nice, eh?” he said, grinning wide. “Always did like to feel appreciated.”

“Speaking of your efforts, we still need to discuss the ‘incident’ from the last job. That cannot be permitted to repeat itself.”

“Not my fault,” he said, pointing his chopsticks at me. “How was I supposed to know someone else was hitting the Cranbrook House? It’s not like there’s a registry and we all take turns!”

The skeptical frown on my face instantly triggered a long, exasperated groan from the man. Even I couldn’t explain how the other thief knew that Cranbrook had been our next target. We’d planned that hit with a meticulous attention to detail over the course of months, as usual. It was either an extremely unlucky coincidence, or someone was on to us. I reviewed the steps he’d taken fifty times. There were far too many moving parts in a typical theft to completely rule out an accident or minor error, but I wasn’t convinced the plan was to blame.

            “Relax, Bianca,” Harry said, his tone calm and placating. “It was a fluke. We’ll get it right next time, I swear. This plan is foolproof.”

            “So was the last one. Yet, here you are with nothing to show for it, not even my reproduction.” I leaned forward and folded my arms on the table as I studied him. Harry’s eye twitched steadily as he returned the stare. It was a tell. He was lying about the incident. “I’ll be joining you on the next job to ensure a clean swap,” I said, lifting my chin.

            Harry’s mouth dropped open. “You? Join a job? One misstep and you don’t trust me, is that it? I’m the one risking everything!”

“Not at all, Harry. I simply cannot afford to lose another piece without receiving compensation from the original. These masters spent years, decades even, perfecting their paintings. I must study their styles and create an accurate reproduction in a few months,” I said, aiming a pointed look at him.

He relied on the money as much as I did, so losing the van Gogh was a sharp blow to our egos as much as our pocketbooks. We were already facing threats from the fences I’d lined up to process the transaction. Another loss would devastate our reputations as well. Losing face in the underground art world was dangerous.

            Harry grumbled quietly to himself as he stuffed the last cookie into his mouth. I heard only three words distinctly. “It’s her fault.” At first, I thought he meant me and fought the urge to defend myself. Then he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I didn’t fuck this up,” he said, meeting my gaze. “She appeared out of nowhere.”

“So you said, but you still don’t know who she is?” 

Harry shrugged. “No, but I know she had red hair and held me at knife point, then took both paintings. Threatened to castrate me too, but to be honest, I expected you to do it when I walked out empty handed.”

I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest indignantly. Forgeries were my specialty, but violence and theft were Harry’s. Admittedly, my work was personal to me and the idea of losing both the forgery and the original in one fell swoop nearly ripped the calm facade I perfected so many years ago. Almost.

Only one person managed to wriggle underneath that mask and she was thousands of miles away. We spent an entire summer wrapped up in the magic of Ireland while studying Celtic art. The once in a lifetime experience between university semesters was vastly improved by a roommate with a pretty face. Siobhan taught me how to carve wood figures and I taught her how to watercolor. Every night, we flipped through my British magazines and shared every secret we ever heard or felt. Then, summer ended and I returned to London. Siobhan was the reason I never let anyone else in. It hurt too much to lose her.

“All the more reason for me to be there,” I said, shaking off the old memory.

“You think you can take her on? She’s hella fast, Bianca.” Harry chewed his bottom lip. “Strong too. I didn’t expect her to overpower me so quickly.”

My lips twitched with reluctant amusement. The image of an intense red-head shoving him against a wall and holding a knife to his throat was entirely too entertaining. He’d been humiliated that night. His face turned a shade of pink reminiscent of Warhol’s Marilyn. Perhaps I needed to meet this woman after all. The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a blatant attempt to draw my attention. I was intrigued.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Harry said, a scowl settling over his features. “For cryin’ out loud! You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Sociopath.”

“You’re thinking of psychopaths, Darling,” I corrected gently. “Sociopaths are disorganized chaos, psychopaths are-”

“Whatever. The point is that she knew my name and threatened to kill me.”

I schooled my face into the calm, detached demeanor he was used to seeing. It seemed to relax him somewhat to see my emotions under control. As if I wasn’t capable of flipping it on like a switch. Men were fools if they underestimated women.

“I presume you have an update to share?” I asked, steepling my fingers in front of my chin. “Or have you abandoned your post for another reason?”

Harry slid an envelope across the table as a smug grin spread over his lips. “The Warhol is in the building as of noon today,” he said. “I used a long lens to catch the movement of it through the windows. They’ve stashed it in the master bedroom. Can you imagine?”

“Really? Why wouldn’t he display it?” I wondered aloud, more to myself than Harry. 

“Who knows how these bougie types think?” 

I nodded in vague agreement as I examined each photo. The estate was impressive, but the house itself was fairly modest by upper class American standards. In the United Kingdom, a 5,000 square foot house would cost tens of millions of pounds. Michigan’s suburbs couldn’t quite compare. I visualized the floorplan we found in the architect’s filed documentation online and compared the two. They aligned perfectly, so a straightforward swap should work.

“Quick in and out, I suspect,” Harry said, pointing to the west side of the house. “Master’s here, rear entrance is there. Ten minutes tops. You follow my lead.”

“Agreed.”

 

            “The alarm system is disabled,” Harry whispered, easing open the gate that guarded the rear entrance of the estate. “Quick swap, right?”

            I nodded, narrowing my eyes in the inky darkness for any sign of guards or dogs. Private homes were often as heavily fortified as museums. Particularly when they housed fine art worth more than several countries' GDPs. With a prize this important, I took no chances. This piece was personal.

“Where are the guards?”

Harry pointed to a small building near the driveway. “He’s in there eating his dinner at the moment. We have to move fast.”

            We crept across the lawn cautiously and remain in the shadows as much as possible. The light rain forecast by the news was just a fifteen percent chance, so the clear skies and cool weather suited us perfectly.  As planned, Harry slipped into the sliding glass door first with his tool bag slung over his shoulder. The owner was scheduled to be at a charity gala at the D.I.A. tonight to accept an award, but we knew how quickly plans changed.

I held the case protecting my re-creation tight to my chest with stubborn determination. My goal was to keep it safe until we had possession of the original. The thin aluminum sheath was slick, but it protected the canvas without adding too much bulk. My heart pounded against my ribs as I stood there with my back pressed to the side of the house and arms stretched around the case. This was the moment of truth. An all-clear dove call or a panicked yelp would signal our next move.

            When the dove call sounded, I followed his lead and slipped into the open door. The furnishings were disgustingly opulent. I’d expected luxury in a home this large, but seeing it in person was another experience entirely. The Turkish rugs beneath every piece of furniture alone would have paid my mortgage off in an instant. A poor investment comparably speaking. My quaint little home was identified as “historic” causing any repairs to double in price for “authenticity.” Tories were even worse in America.

            “Over here,” Harry whispered again, peering around the corner. “It’s down this hall.”

            “Why are we whispering? Isn’t the house empty?” 

            “Not worth the risk,” he said. “I disabled the cameras, but we only have twenty minutes until the next security round. Make it quick.”

            Considering that the art piece has been delivered the day before, it likely wasn’t displayed yet. This offered an opportunity to swap it before it was mounted and fitted with alarms. We reached the end of the hall and stepped into the master bedroom. It was lavishly decorated like the rest of the house with exquisite hand-carved furniture. The centerpiece was a four-poster bed with sapphire brocade drapes that wouldn’t look out of place in Buckingham Palace. 

            “Hurry up!” Harry hissed, waving a hand. He stationed himself at the doorway tapping his fingers together like a waspish crab. Playing lookout was his least favorite task.

            “Calm down, we have plenty of time. This is delicate work.”

            Despite my words, I hurried toward the closet door. I was surprised to find it standing open. Who left a closet with a Warhol in it unlocked and open? I peered inside and noted several wooden crates in various stages of disassembly. The newest addition was still sealed and the Warhol appeared undisturbed. Cracking that crate open required time and strength I didn’t have.

             “Harry, give me a hand.”

            He quickly ducked into the bedroom and followed me inside the closet. I turned side-ways to fit the case in with me, then set it off to the side. Harry pulled a crowbar from his bag and began prying open the crate. I flinched every time a nail squeaked free from the wood and hoped the guard wasn’t close enough to hear us.

When I finally stood in front of the original screen-printed canvas, I couldn’t help but smile. Marilyn was so perfectly captured in this one. The garish color choices Warhol made didn’t detract from her classic beauty one bit. This piece would be difficult to part with, but worth it. Financially speaking anyway.

“Go on, I can handle this bit,” I whispered to Harry, waving dismissively. He gathered his bag and hurried out into the hallway.

            Compared to opening the crate, swapping the canvases was the easy part. I slid my fingertips between the original canvas and the stiff paper padding around it and carefully tugged each corner free. Loosening the edges one at a time allowed me to ease the canvas from the packing material. With a cautious touch, I lifted the Warhol into my arms and stepped out of the closet. Damaging the piece would be a far greater insult to the art world than stealing it.

            I propped the original against the bedroom wall temporarily while I snuck back into the closet to insert my reproduction in its place. It was much trickier to wedge my newly finished canvas into the crate. After several frustrating attempts, I pulled out half of the packing material to make it fit before tucking it back in. A loud thud was followed by a muffled groan from the hallway. My heart pounded in my chest as the worst-case scenarios flew through my mind. What if the guard did his rounds early? What if the owner came home unexpectedly?

            Three steps. That’s how far I made it before the silence startled me to an abrupt halt. I searched the low light of the bedroom, then flattened my back to the wall. Harry was no longer pacing in front of the doorway and his impatient shuffle of footsteps was absent. It felt a bit eerie standing there waiting for a sound or movement. Like walking through a haunted house knowing a scare actor will burst out at me at any moment. I tried to ignore the prickle of fear that ran down my spine. Although every logical part of my brain ordered me to run, I remained frozen in place. 

            The drapes on the bed shifted subtly. I stared at the massive four-poster as I slid my hand over my hip. No witnesses was Harry’s only rule in art theft. He said anything else was negotiable to a point. My fingers slipped into my pocket and wrapped around the switchblade he insisted I carry tonight, just in case. I was terrified of the stiletto style knife, even though the blade itself was under four inches. Or, perhaps more precisely, I was afraid of what I could do with it. There were plenty of illustrative punctures in my wall at home where he’d insisted that I practice. The idea of those holes in a human body made me queasy.

            Before I could ease the knife free, a hand shot out of the dark and gripped my wrist tight. A sharp pain flew up my arm and forced a gasp from my chest. The switchblade clattered across the floor as I turned my head with a snap, but it was too late. My body was spun around on the spot and I was pressed face-first into the wall. It was beyond humiliating.

            “Hello, Bianca,” a feminine voice whispered in my ear. 

            I blinked rapidly as my brain processed the familiarity in the tone. While I vaguely recognized her voice, my mind filled in very few blanks. The red-headed thief that Harry encountered at the museum called him by name. She knew exactly who she was dealing with and was prepared for them. Perhaps even waited for them.

            “You have me at a disadvantage, Darling,” I said, not bothering to whisper. There was still a chance Harry was conscious after all. “Care to introduce yourself properly?”

            An amused huff followed my question. She tightened her grip on my wrists, holding them crossed against my lower back with one hand. The metallic click of an automatic switchblade was my only warning before her knife pressed against my throat. I expected it, to be honest. Most thieves carried a knife and she’d already proven her skill with one to Harry.

            “You’ll know my name soon enough,” she said, rocking the smooth blade against my jugular. “Though I’d prefer to hear you shout it in ecstasy, rather than despise it.”

            I laughed at the poorly veiled innuendo. She’d surprised me with a lilting Irish accent, as well as the bold flirtation. Neither explained why she was stalking Harry and me, or how she discovered our plans so easily, but both piqued my interest. Lifting my chin, I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. 

            “Ah-ah, no. There’s no peeking now,” she warned, angling the blade up. “I know all your tricks.”

            “Hardly seems fair,” I said, relaxing marginally in her grasp. “You clearly know all about me already, but I can’t even see your face or know your name?” 

            She leaned forward and rested her chin on my shoulder. “Ask me anything else. My favorite color, perhaps? It’s emerald green, like your eyes. My guilty pleasures? Chocolate and fit artists, preferably at the same time. I can be more specific if you like, or is it strictly business with you now?”

            “That depends on what you want from me.”

            I felt her chin shift as she smiled. “I think I’ve made my intentions rather clear, don’t you? I’ve illustrated that my skills far exceed your bag man, showed my appreciation for your work, and encouraged you to reproduce a masterpiece that I knew you adored. I’ve practically courted you, Bianca. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed?” 

            “Is that what this was?” I asked, fighting the urge to laugh again. “You want to replace my partner?” 

            “Let’s not pretend he’s worthy of your…talents,” she said, drawing out the last word intentionally for effect. “The bloke is nowhere near your equal, in any way.”

            “He’s efficient and charismatic.”

            “Is that what you want in a partner nowadays, Bianca? A simpering whelp that will mindlessly chase at your heels? If so, I’m disappointed to hear that.”

            She had a point. I was an artist first and a thief second. It annoyed me that I needed to devote so much time to the detailed plans of every job too. I’d much rather remain focused on art reproduction. I planned every step with Harry, as well as followed up with every list I made for him. While my dedication to retaining control over my own work was partially to blame, I also recognized his strategic incompetence. Harry was capable of far more than he let on, but preferred a physical role over an intellectual one. His job was to run preparatory errands, protect the artwork on the way in and out, then perform simple swaps.

            “I’ll admit I’d rather paint than plan, but can I really trust anyone with my work other than someone willing to follow my instructions? All thieves are self-serving.”

            “You can trust me,” she insisted. “I’ve had every opportunity to turn you in over the last six months, but I didn’t.”

            “Why not?” I allowed my curiosity to lead. Internally, I flailed at the timeline she’d mentioned. We hadn’t clocked her until a month ago. The last six months included two additional jobs beyond the failed one.

            “I’d rather have you for myself than see you rot in prison.” She leaned up on her toes and pressed her lips to my cheek. “Think about it, Bianca. I’m not a patient woman, but for you, I’ll wait. It’s been years, what’s a few more weeks?”

            My face heated at the unexpected affection. I still wasn’t entirely sure if the flirting was an attempt to fluster me or if the woman was flirty by nature, but if she’d left lip marks on my cheek that felt intentional. Perhaps she wanted to ensure I thought about her after she left. It could also send a signal to my partner that she’d be back.

            “If I decide not to make a change?” I asked. 

            “For the health and safety of your whelp, I would recommend against that decision. I’d find incredible satisfaction in finishing what I started at the Institute.” Her voice softened as she switched tactics. “Just think, we could take this international. No more hiding in shite little sheds in America. I would take you to Paris, Singapore, and Brazil. Anywhere you like, Bianca.”

            The flippant response I’d held back dissolved on my tongue. Surely, she was exaggerating or padding the offer to lure me in. Traveling the world was a lifelong dream for nearly everyone. Clever, very clever.

            “Does that entice you?” she whispered. The woman’s breath tickled my ear. That move felt familiar too, but I still couldn’t quite place it.

            “Perhaps, what are the terms? Just so that I can compare to my current arrangement.”

            “I’ll double whatever you’re making now,” she said without hesitation.

I lifted my eyebrows. “We split it 50/50 now. You’re prepared to give me everything?”

“And more, if you’re willing.”

“No flirting during negotiations.” I refused to let her distract me again. 

“Killjoy.”

A flash of light shone through the bedroom window. Immediately, the woman released my hands, pushed me in the closet, then pulled the door flush behind us. We stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark, each taking slow, even breaths. The muffled crackling of a security guard’s walkie-talkie broke the silence. 

I squeezed my hands into fists and closed my eyes as I tried desperately to reign in the anxiety that flooded my face with heat and accelerated my heart to an unreal speed. If this was the way I went down, I was glad it was for Warhol. There weren’t many artists I’d be willing to take the fall for copying. Warhol was at the top of that tiny list.

The woman reached out blindly for my hand. She pried open my fist, then linked our fingers together. Every few seconds, she squeezed my hand. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to comfort me or herself, but it helped either way. Not that I would tell her that.

When silence filled the house again, she pushed the door open and pulled me out into the bedroom. I took a deep, steadying breath as I admired the moon’s opal glow shimmering through the windows. The drizzle now tapped against the panes in a steady rhythm. I regulated my breathing to assure my heart no longer threatened to burst from my chest.

Finally, she turned and met my eyes. The delight in her smug grin was contagious. I felt my lips twitching upward in response. Our shared moment of panic revealed more than I expected. I knew that grin quite well. I just hadn’t expected to see it stateside.

“Recognize me now, Bee?” she said, her hazel eyes shining.

“Siobhan? No. No. You live in Ireland…” I said. “How did you get here?” 

I had one of those brain slog moments where my mind stuttered when someone appeared out of the context I know them from. Like when I spot a teacher at the grocery store or a neighborhood bully at the zoo. I simply refused to accept the concept that their lives didn’t end at the school-yard. I outright rejected it, rather than connect the two.

She smirked. “There was this lovely new invention last century, airplanes.”

I stared at her in wide-eyed wonder while my mind helpfully offered a constant stream of images of the Siobhan I knew. Her auburn waves in a thick ponytail tucked behind her shoulders, her dimples appearing every time she laughed, and her favorite band tee from The Cranberries concert we attended together. I could see all of it so clearly. Her t-shirt featured a vivid rainbow on black cotton. 

“I knew it. You were after her.” The sneer in his voice shocked me back to the present.

I shook my head clear and refocused on the doorway while my brain attempted to process the jarring sight of Harry’s bloody face and accusatory glare. He rubbed at his nose gingerly, then wiped his hand on his shirt. I winced at the new smear he’d added to his already ravaged top. 

“Dramatic git, it’s just a nosebleed,” she said, lifting her chin. “Didn’t even hit you that hard. You’re just a bleeder.”

“You! Fuck off!” he shouted, his finger trembling as he jabbed it in her direction. “Just take the painting and leave! This is between me and her.”

“Not ruddy likely.” Siobhan lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. A triumphant grin lit up her face when my cheeks warmed in response. 

Harry scowled back, then dove to the floor for my knife. He held it out as he rose to his feet with his thumb pressed against the button. The sharp blade released with a metallic clink. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at my own weapon. Harry hesitated with the knife as he pointed in our direction in an unspoken threat. His eyes flitted back and forth between us. Indecision distracted him, but his arm remained tense until he saw the lip marks on my cheek. I recognized the moment he laid eyes on it. Harry’s jaw tensed and his gaze narrowed as he shifted his hand towards me instead.

“Don’t even think about it,” Siobhan said, her voice flat and cold. She’d slowly started shifting forward while Harry’s attention was on my face. Her own knife was held tight against her free hand, but the blade was tucked away. 

He glanced at her and all of his anger surged over his features. His aim wavered between the two of us several times. Harry appeared to debate with himself over which of us he hated more. Which to target first:  me, the business partner who jilted him, or her, the woman who anyone with eyes could see I’d never walk away from again. 

Harry’s eyebrows knit together as he swung the blade back and forth. Siobhan pulled her arm back. Harry swerved to the right and launched the knife across the room with startling velocity. His eyes were wide and manic as he watched it fly. Siobhan shifted abruptly and braced herself in front of me. She kept our joined hands anchored behind her back and her knife extended. My knife sliced through the canvas and ripped Marilyn’s face open. The painting’s remains were left flapping from the momentum. 

“No!” I shouted, lunging forward. I released my hold on Siobhan and reached for the Warhol. My fingers trembled as I puzzled the canvas back together. No matter how carefully I fitted the pieces, they refused to rejoin. I covered my face as the tears streamed down my cheeks. 

Rage coursed through my chest like rocket fuel. It ignited on contact with the scorching heat of every nerve in my body. A Warhol belonged to the world. No one truly owned it. They simply protected it for a while. This was my turn. I was responsible for it when it met its untimely end. A captured moment in history honoring a woman who was held hostage to society’s demands was lost to a foolish man’s tantrum. It was so utterly predictable, it made me ache. 

I moved fast, but Siobhan was faster. When I reached for her knife, she threw it well over Harry’s head. Harry shouted as the blade whistled past him. The knife embedded itself into the wall with a hollow thud. He stared at the knife, then at me. When he realized Siobhan had saved his life, he bolted from the room.

I wanted to chase after him and shred his miserable life to ribbons. Instead, I collapsed to the floor in a pitiful huddle. I poured every emotion I’d ever suppressed into those deep, gulping sobs. The word failure pummeled my mind. I envisioned the scars and bruises the blows would have left on my skin. Only visible to me, but felt more deeply than any injury I’d ever experienced. Self-inflicted wounds dug deeper.

Siobhan quietly sat next to me and stroked her hand over my back. She waited until the worst of it passed before wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “We still have yours, Bianca. In a way, it’s better. Your admiration for Warhol adds another layer to the canvas,” she whispered. “I think he’d appreciate the beauty in that.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” I said, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“I know. Did it help anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I gestured at the empty doorway and met her eyes. “Harry’s a liability now. You know that, right?”

“Perhaps, but he wasn’t worth the loss of a perfectly good knife,” she said, pushing up from the floor to her feet. “He won’t make it far if he opens his mouth and I suspect he knows that.”

“Losing your knife? That’s why you stopped me?”

Siobhan hesitated, then shook her head as she walked across the bedroom. She reached up to the doorway and pulled the knife free from the wood. “No, Bee. He wasn’t worth the torment you’d put yourself through over it. Now come on. That guard will be back soon.”

I took a deep breath and accepted the hand she offered to pull myself upright. She had a point. The adrenaline rush wasn’t worth the self-flagellation, even if he deserved it. Warhol or not, Marilyn expected better from me. The Blonde Bombshell didn’t break the glass ceiling so that I would cut my feet on the shards she left behind.