The Last of the Stanfields(93)

“Are you all right, Hanna?” asked Jorge, poking his head into the room.

“I think I’d like to see the cellar now,” she whispered.

“Are you . . . sure about that?” he asked.

Hanna gave a solemn nod and Jorge pulled up the trapdoor. He sparked his lighter and climbed down first, testing the rungs of the ladder to make sure it wouldn’t snap under their weight. Luckily, the stone cellar had kept it dry. Hanna climbed down to join him.

“So, this is where you hid . . . the whole time—”

“Yes,” Hanna cut in before he could finish. “I hid down there at the end of the tunnel. Follow me.” Taking Jorge’s lighter in hand, Hanna took the lead, tracing the length of the tunnel and stopping before her father’s hiding place.

“That wooden beam. Give it a nice hard tug, please. It should slide out. Just a few centimeters is all I need.”

Surprising as her requests were, Hanna looked so beautiful in the glow of the flickering flame that Jorge would have moved heaven and earth for her at that moment.

“You know, whenever I came up here with provisions or laundry, just getting one single look at you would give me strength. Every time. Knowing you were waiting at the top of the path was the only thing that made the climb worth it.”

“I know,” Hanna replied. “I’ve always known. Looking at you gave me strength, too. But that was a long time ago. I’m married now.” Jorge shrugged and pulled out the beam to reveal the cavity dug into the wall. Stepping in closer, Hanna gave Jorge back his lighter and asked him to give her some light.

Jorge did as she asked, and Hanna slid her hand into the crevice until her fingers closed around the metal tube. She pulled the precious container out of its hiding place and announced that it was time to leave.

Jorge was not an especially talkative man, but he couldn’t resist asking Hanna a few questions as they climbed back down the trail.

“That tube, is that what you came here for?”

“I came to mourn my father,” she replied, resting her eyes on the precious cylinder. “This is part of that.”

The two arrived at the end of the trail and hopped back on the motorcycle. “Where to now?” the blacksmith asked.

“The station, if you’d be so kind.”

As the motorcycle roared down country roads, Hanna gripped Jorge’s waist firmly with one hand and clutched the metal tube with the other. The wind biting at her cheeks filled her with a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in ages, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Jorge accompanied her all the way to the platform and stood by her side to await the train. When at last Hanna boarded, he grabbed her hand and stopped her halfway into the train carriage.

“Tell me what’s inside that tube,” he said.

“My father’s personal belongings.”

“In that case, I’m glad they stayed hidden in that hole all this time, and that you were able to reclaim them.”

“Thank you, Jorge. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re never coming back, are you?”

“No, never.”

“Just passing through. I figured as much when I saw you didn’t even bring a bag. Safe travels, Hanna. Goodbye.”

Jorge stayed planted on the platform, watching as the train pulled away and Hanna leaned out to blow him a kiss.



Back in Paris, Hanna opened the cylinder and carefully unrolled the canvases on her hotel room bed. Once more, her father had proven wise and farsighted by using the waterproof tube; the paintings were completely undamaged. One by one, Hanna examined each of them, a sense of dread growing in the pit of her stomach as she made a chilling discovery.

There were only nine paintings. One was missing. Hopper’s Girl by the Window had vanished into thin air.



The next morning, Hanna paid for her hotel room, boarded an Air France Constellation flight to New York, and never looked back.





34

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, Baltimore

That was it, the end of the chapter. George-Harrison finished just moments later and suggested grabbing a coffee, but all I wanted was to find out the rest of the story and to understand why Morrison hadn’t written it down. Why would it end so abruptly? I checked my watch. It was almost six . . . Still a slim chance we’d have time to corner the slippery professor in his office.

“Follow me,” I said, my commanding tone catching George-Harrison off guard.

“You’re certainly your grandmother’s granddaughter,” he said, rolling his eyes.

We bolted straight out of the library and sprinted down the campus walkways side by side without slowing for a single moment. If not for our clothes, we could have been mistaken for a pair of runners vying for the finish line, which was how our wild chase actually came to an end. George-Harrison and I ran neck and neck until I spotted a shortcut and split off, leaving him in the dust, with him yelling that I was a cheater. We burst straight into Morrison’s office without bothering to knock, out of breath and triumphant. The professor nearly leapt out of his chair, shocked to find us panting and dripping with sweat in his office.

“Somehow, I doubt it was my manuscript that left you two in such a state,” he said, wryly.

“No, it’s what it was missing! Why would you decide to cut the story off like that, right in the middle of the chapter?” I implored.