Chapter 2 2.

Olivia's P.O.V.

The rest of the tour did not last for long, I parted ways with Patrick and Mr. Smith as they went into an office to discuss the security details for the museum. Now alone, I found myself walking aimlessly through the galleries and gazed at the paintings that were framed against the walls.

I stopped in front of a canvas that exhibited a landscape of wildflowers in a field. The thin brushstrokes lined out every detail, the colors created a vivid scene, and the sunlight from the windows had helped this painting come to life.

It was elegant, natural, and radiant. It's impressionism.

The next painting that I came across was unusual and eccentric. The objects and figures painted on the canvas were not something one would find in reality, but instead, from a whimsical imagination.

Expressionism? Or maybe surrealism.

As I came across the last painting, I noticed it was very different from the others. It was not extravagant; it was minimalistic. Not colorful, but plain. It's boring, I thought to myself as I stared at the black canvas with one white dot in the center. Definitely modern art. How do these things sell for millions of dollars?

Taking one last glance around the room, I noticed that some pieces were tilted out of place and one canvas was slightly protruding from its frame, almost like it was removed. It was strange, the previous curator must have been fired given that they did an awful job at rearranging these pieces.

I sighed and roamed over to the next gallery, but stopped in my tracks when I saw the odd man in black from earlier. He made brief eye contact with me but then directed his attention towards another sculpture.

How long has he been here? I asked myself, wondering if I should make an approach. After much contemplation and arguments within myself, I decided to make a genial introduction, as it would be best to not be a stranger to a possible coworker.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I said while nodding towards the statue that he was looking at.

I walked closer to stand next to him, mindful to keep my distance, as he then turned to gaze at me, but decided to keep his lips sealed and his voice a mystifying secret.

Great, I sighed and instinctively showed off a timid smile as to fill in the void between us, but I had no doubts that it came off as awkward.

"It's called the Girl from Anzio." My nervous mouth rambled on while a part of me died inside. I had hoped that this reticent man would put the other features of his face to use, but his eyes continued to glare down at me judgingly, while his mouth still had no reply.

This is truly embarrassing.

"Where is the man that you were with earlier?" he asked abruptly in a gruff Italian accent.

And so he speaks, I scoffed to myself while my eyes widened with shock as he caught me by surprise.

"Smith," he said with impatience and irritability within his voice.

What was with the attitude? I turned towards him with a scowl and bit my tongue to keep unkind words from slipping through my lips. I crossed my arms over my chest, tilted my head up to catch a view of this very tall man, and decided to return the same harsh manner that he had given me.

"Mr. Smith is in the security room showing a new employee around," I sneered back at him.

Without another word, or a simple 'thank you', I watched as the man turned around and started walking towards the office that Mr. Smith had entered earlier. I stared at his back in disbelief, but frowned, realizing that I was off to a bad start on my first day here.

"Men," I scoffed under my breath. I had grumbled a few words of bitterness to myself, but calmed as I now stood alone with a statue who had a more peaceful presence than him, although, the silence was soon stolen from me.

"Olivia!" A cheery voice called out my name. I looked over my shoulder and smiled, seeing that the expression of joy had belonged to a familiar face: Patrick.

"Would you like to grab some coffee with me? There is a café just down the street," he offered.

"Sure, that would be nice," I replied with hesitance as I was unsure of going out with someone that I had just met, but my starving stomach had suppressed my worries.

"Great! It's a place that I frequent often, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," he said, giving me a toothy grin.

As we were walking towards the front entrance of the museum, the sound of disgruntled voices, muffled through the walls, had caught our attention. I glanced through the window of the office door and noticed Mr. Smith and the ill-mannered man arguing in Italian. My brows furrowed, seeing that my new boss looked scared out of his mind. What did you do?

"Is everything alright?" I asked Patrick, seeing that instead of curiosity, his face was veiled with displeasure.

"Yes, I apologize, everything's fine. We should get going," he answered and immediately displaced his glower with a slight smile.

I was relieved once we reached the café, finally getting the chance to catch my breath as my five-foot-seven height struggled to keep up with Patrick's long and hurried strides.

"Order anything you'd like, I'll pay," he insisted.

"Are you sure?" I asked, completely out of breath and feeling embarrassed that my hatred for being active has now been revealed.

"Of course," he grinned and nodded his head.

"I will just have the caffè freddo," I replied while eyeing the delicious refreshment on the menu.

"Would you like to have a seat? I saw an open table in the corner of the café, you can rest while I handle our order," he said with a light chuckle, eyeing my body that was practically leaning on the counter for support.

"Good idea, I'll go do that, but not because I'm winded, I just want to make sure that no one steals those seats," I jested while glancing at the only other customer as she left through the door.

I smiled at him and turned to walk towards the area that he suggested. Although, I had found it to be quite odd that he would choose this lonely corner, as it was a lovely day to sit outside, but I suppose this will do.

I happily sat down at the table and became at ease while I watched him place our order. Patrick's benevolence was a breath of fresh air compared to my encounter with that unpleasant man from earlier. I had wanted to forget about that moment, but the image of him continued to plague my mind, I even feared that I was finding that man to be enticing.

After some time, Patrick slowly walked over to the table, attempting to balance the plate and cups that he held in his hands, and denying my help once I saw him struggling. What a silly man, I thought in amusement as I watched him concentrate on the swaying liquid that threatened to spill with one wrong move.

"You made it," I teased once he successfully reached the table.

"I wasn't sure if you ate breakfast yet, so I bought you some cornetti." He sighed in relief as he took a seat.

A gentleman as well, I noted to myself.

"Thank you," I said gratefully and wasted no time to indulge in these delights.

Patrick was right, I indeed found these sweet treats to be enjoyable, but he caught my attention as he scrunched his face in disgust after taking a sip from his mug.

"I had thought that I should give their espresso a second chance, but the Italians can never do anything right. Not strong enough, it's a shame," he said in a displeasing tone as he set down his cup.

I shook my head and laughed, "I am assuming you're not from here if you're making deprecatory remarks about the Italians."

"I'm from the United States," he muffled out while taking a bite from his bread.

"But your accent..." I trailed on, questioning him.

"I picked up an accent when I moved to Italy and tried to learn the language," he answered and looked away from me, turning his gaze towards the window.

"When did you move here?" I asked.

"About four years ago. I was twenty-two when I first got here," he replied and I nodded my head slowly, noticing that we had both moved to Rome in the same year.

"Are you going to eat that?" he asked in my silence while nodding towards my unfinished cornetti.

"No, you can have it," I said with a laugh as I was pulled away from my thoughts.

"Would you like my drink as well?" I asked with a smirk, seeing that he eyed my iced coffee and answered with a sheepish nod

We were not in the café for long after Patrick finished eating. Our curiosities for each other became excited as we strolled through the streets, I had even told him about my studies at the university. He had asked what encouraged me to pursue art history, and I couldn't help but think back to my mother, as she was the reason why. I told him that growing up my mother had taught me to be curious, to wonder, and to love; I found all three aspects in art.

He had taken an interest in my past, and started to ask more questions about my mom, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him about the accident, that she is no longer here; that she is dead. Instead, I told him about how lovely she was, how she appreciated and admired the small things in life, and how she was not only a mother, but a teacher, my best friend.

I saw a glint of emotion in his deep blue eyes as I finished talking about her. Perhaps, sympathy? Or, sadness?

I was on the verge of asking him about his own family, but I was pulled away from my thoughts as he suddenly began to speak.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

I looked at him in confusion as the question was unexpected, but noticing my perplexed expression, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, I meant it is getting late, I can walk you home if you'd like?"

I looked around and noticed that it was getting dark as the sun was starting to set, casting a warm orange glow upon the city buildings.

"I don't live too far from here, but I will need to go back to the office to grab some paperwork," I answered, accepting his offer.

"I'll come with you, if you don't mind."

I smiled and nodded at him as we both began to walk towards the direction of the museum. Finally, after struggling to keep up with his strides once again, we reached the building, but he stopped in his tracks and fell behind.

"I'm going to wait outside," he said, taking in our surroundings.

"Sure, I'll just be out in a moment," I replied and walked through the entrance.

Silence filled the museum as I noticed that no one was around, the fluorescent lights were dimmed and the corridors were no longer bright from the sun's radiance, it was quite the eerie scene.

"Ms. Fredinard?" I gasped when I heard my name called out. I turned towards the reception desk and noticed Mrs. Jackson sitting there.

"Hi! Hello! I'm so sorry, I thought that I was alone" I laughed nervously with a racing heart and a hand placed over my chest.

"Buona sera, I apologize for the scare. I just wanted to inform you that the museum will be closing soon," she smiled apologetically.

"I will just need to grab some paperwork that I left behind in the office and I promise I will be out of your hair shortly," I spoke quickly.

"No worries, cara, take your time." She returned a kind nod as I awkwardly fast walked towards the office.

Mrs. Jackson was a warmhearted elderly woman, her smile almost reminded me of my mother's: sweet, cordial, and genuine.

I continued to hurry towards the room as I did not want to make Mrs. Jackson stay longer at work than she needed to. Once I gathered my papers and read over the list of names of my soon-to-be clients, I suddenly heard a loud thud down the hallway.

I softly placed my hand over the knob and pushed the office door slowly, just enough to peek through the small crevice. After not hearing a single sound during the seconds that passed by, I quietly exited the room and started to walk down the hall. Expecting to see her delightful face, I turned the corner with a smile, wanting to wish her a good night, but it soon vanished once I noticed that the reception desk was empty.

"Mrs. Jackson?" I called out quietly and glanced over the hallways to see if she was there. Nothing. I then listened for her heels walking against the hard cold ground, wondering if she was roaming through the galleries. Silence.

I made my way towards the reception desk, but instantly stopped when I noticed a dark substance pooling around the edge of the wooden table.

"Mrs. Jackson," I said faintly, almost inaudibly.

My breath was caught in my dry, constricted throat as I walked closer, not knowing what I was going to see; not prepared for what I was going to find.

I came to a stop once my shoes reached the edge of the wooden desk and took a deep breath as I peered over the counter. My eyes were pulled towards the figure on the ground, and consequently, my heart stopped beating.

My peripheral vision had turned black, and my sight was only focused on the lifeless body that lied before me. This was no longer Mrs. Jackson. What is a human without their soul? This is only a body: no mind, no emotion, no feelings.

I felt my hands begin to tremble, and my legs became stiff, threatening to give out beneath me at any second. The rest of my limbs had soon followed that dreadful feeling as numbness was now spreading throughout my body.

I could not think.

I could not feel.

I could not hear.

I could only see.

And so I saw, and I looked.

I looked at Mrs. Jackson's spiritless and perished body. As I kneeled beside her, my knees came in contact with the dark red viscous blood. My hand lightly found its way towards her cheek and I observed her carefully as a circular wound now marked her forehead.

"Patrick," I said under my breath, feeling my eyes brim with tears.

"Patrick," I managed to croak out in a raspy voice.

Mrs. Jackson needs help.

"Patrick!" I yelled out.

I stood to my feet, blood now stained my hands and slowly dripped down my leg from the ends of my skirt, and I looked around the gallery that was once beautiful and lively, but now felt ominous. Sinister.

"Olivia what's wrong? I heard you-" Patrick looked at me in horror once he noticed the blood that stained my body.

I placed my hand on my forehead, feeling lightheaded, but shuddered as I felt liquid sliding down the side of my brow. Blood is on my hands, and now my face, I gripped my hair in frustration and fear. Her blood is on me. I crossed my arms around my waist and clawed at my blouse, hugging my wavering frame.

"Olivia, what happened? Are you hurt?" he questioned me worriedly, but I couldn't bring myself to answer, I only wanted to leave this horrid scene.

Patrick gripped my arm and examined me as his eyes roamed over my body frantically, looking for any signs of wounds.

I am not the one who is injured.

"Mrs. Jackson," I breathed out.

Patrick turned his head towards the desk and his eyes found what had instilled fear within me.

"You have to help her, Patrick."

"Please, she needs to go back home to her family. You need to help her. We can save her," I spoke through shallow breaths.

"Olivia, look at me. You are panicking, you need to stay calm. She is dead; there is nothing we can do to save her and you know that," he frowned.

Patrick then turned his attention towards the body and swiftly pulled out a gun from the inside of his suit. I stared at the man in terror and stumbled away as my mind raced with thoughts that had turned this tenderhearted person into a possible suspect. Is he involved in this?

Noticing my sudden movements, he grabbed my arm and forced me to kneel beside him, behind the desk, as if to take cover from more danger to come.

"I did not kill her, Olivia," he said in a stern voice while peeking around the wall of the desk.

"Where did you get the gun?" I nervously asked him while tears began to fall from my face.

"Work," he simply replied with a single word that had only made me even more frightened.

"You need to stay here. I have to check the hallways."

I shook my head hysterically, not wanting to be alone, and tried to reach out to him as I stared at the dead body beside me. Suddenly, the sound of an object shattering onto the ground had made us paralyzed.

Patrick held a vigilant look across his eyes and pointed his gun into the darkness. I desperately wanted to escape, but my feeble legs and heavy heart had kept me anchored through terror as this violent night had now changed the course of my life.