Page 8 of Finders Keepers

“I’m not trying to tear open old wounds, Nina.

I’m trying to heal them.” That look of surprise and contrition from last night is nowhere to be found on Quentin’s face.

His lips are a flat line, and his cheeks are flushed.

“Do you think you were the only one who was hurt that summer? That you’re the only one hurting now? ”

The emotion in his voice manages to pull me out of my pity spiral.

I blink, and suddenly standing before me is my old friend, a little boy trying to make everything into a challenge, into a game, so he doesn’t have to confront it head-on.

He’s going through it just as much as I am.

And this—the treasure hunt—must be something of a coping mechanism.

It’s like in 2008, when we spent those long days researching at the library, making the map at my dining room table, exchanging theories late at night over AIM, exploring Sprangbur’s grounds over and over again as if the X that would mark the spot might magically appear if we were persistent enough.

We wanted to find Fountain’s riches, of course.

But I always suspected that it was about more than that for Quentin.

That he was using the hunt as a distraction.

One that got him out of his house, away from his parents’ ice-cold silence and the moving boxes that reminded him that everything was about to change.

In that light, it’s easier to understand that his proposal to resume the search may not be the provocation it felt like a moment ago.

It may be him grasping for a way to navigate another challenging period in his life.

Or a way to make amends.

“You know I’ve always had my doubts,” I say, finding myself willing to be gentler. “We did enough research on Julius James Fountain to know that he was…whimsical.”

Quentin snorts. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

True, it’s a gross understatement. Fountain existed somewhere beyond whimsy.

He was like a turn-of-the-century Willy Wonka, minus the child endangerment.

A man known for his shrewd business sense but also for doing things purely because he found them amusing.

Quirky, original, a little bit annoying.

Sort of a manic pixie dream industrialist.

“So what makes you believe he actually hid a treasure at Sprangbur?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t he have equally enjoyed the idea of everyone searching for something that never existed?

We know he loved pranks. Remember the thing in the oral history interview about him always trying to scare the shit out of visitors by blending in with his furniture? ”

He frowns, considering. “I hear you. I just don’t think he was the sort of person who would lie about something like this.”

“But he was the sort of person to hide something of immense value somewhere on his property and construct an elaborate treasure hunt for strangers to find it?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I shake my head.

We’re talking about someone who claimed to be the monarch of a pretend kingdom and was notorious for breaking into pig latin at board meetings just to keep his employees on their toes.

Not hiding a treasure and hiding one do seem equally in character.

“Okay, yes, he probably was that sort of person,” I admit.

“But then why hasn’t anyone cracked this yet?

Doesn’t it seem more likely that it isn’t actually there than that no one has managed to find it over the last eighty-whatever years?

We know we aren’t the only ones to ever search for it.

Not even the only ones this century. There were plenty of people who looked after the reward was announced. ”

Quentin shrugs. “Not that many, though, and who knows how seriously they took it. We know that even back when Fountain died, most people thought it was nothing but a silly legend. And they still do. Mr. Long definitely did.”

Our tenth-grade social studies teacher assigned us a short research project about local folklore and used an overhead projection of the original newspaper article reporting the unusual contents of Fountain’s will as an example of a primary source we could use.

Somehow, in a class of twenty-two bored teenagers, Quentin and I were the only ones who latched onto the idea that a hidden treasure might actually exist in our hometown.

Or, rather, Quentin latched onto it. Then persuaded me. Not completely dissimilar to what is happening right now.

He takes a step closer, and the honeysuckle in the air mixes with that clean, soapy smell I picked up while hugging him last night.

I have to admit it’s certainly an upgrade from the Axe Body Spray he (and most of the other boys at school) used to wear like a heavy jacket.

There’s something about the scent of him that makes my bones feel like they’re made of pudding.

“Isn’t it tempting?” he asks, and it takes me a moment again to realize we haven’t switched topics.

“An item of immense value , according to someone who was one of the wealthiest men in the United States. We could be talking thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of dollars! Split fifty-fifty, I assume that kind of cash could be very helpful at this particular moment in your life.”

“Would we even have the legal right to keep something discovered on someone else’s property?” I ask. “Or would we have to turn over whatever we find to the Sprangbur Conservancy anyway?”

“I actually have no idea,” he confesses happily.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a lawyer?”

“Good lawyers admit when they need to do some more research. And, believe it or not, this isn’t exactly a straightforward situation.” He pauses. “But I can see a world in which someone would be able to make a case that ‘finders keepers’ applies here.”

“?‘Finders keepers,’?” I repeat. “And that’s an official legal term?”

He grins. “Surprisingly, sort of yes?”

I place my hands flat, palms up, as if about to shrug.

“So, I could spend my time looking for a new job and a place to live that isn’t my childhood bedroom, or I could go on a fool’s errand with you that has a half of a percent chance of helping me out if the treasure actually exists, if we can find it, if it’s actually worth something, and if the law happens to be on our side.

” Perhaps it’s a bit much, but I make a show of it before settling the look-for-a-new-job hand up toward my ear and the go-treasure-hunting one somewhere near my waist. “Yeah, sorry, no, I will not be doing that.”

My smile is tight-lipped as I turn to go back inside.

Quentin’s hand comes to my upper arm, gently stopping me in my tracks. A delicious tingle dances along my skin where his fingers rest. “Neen. Wait.”

I spin around, facing him, crossing my arms to protect myself from the contact. “What?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

I wait for him to explain why he has said an amount of money at me, eventually gesturing for him to go on when the natural time for him to do so elapses.

“What if there was still a guaranteed ten thousand dollars if we found it? Would it be worth it then?”

My eyebrows dive in confusion. “What are you talking about? The reward expired.” It’s true that there was once one offered for information leading to the treasure’s discovery.

But that was just a publicity stunt concocted by the Sprangbur Conservancy and the gigantic beverage conglomerate that now owns Fountain Seltzer in an effort to drum up interest in the old property when they started their renovation fundraising in the early aughts.

It wasn’t even in effect when we were hunting in ’08 (not that it kept us from dreaming that we would still be lauded as heroes and showered with money regardless).

He shakes his head. “Not technically. There’s an obscure legal loophole I learned about in Contracts.

It’s called Charlie’s Law. You know, because of the whole golden ticket, chocolate factory situation.

And it says that if a corporation announces a contest where the prize is dependent on finding something, it cannot officially end until said thing is found. ”

I let out a bizarre, unamused laugh. “And you think we could actually hold Aera-Bev to that? They wouldn’t just laugh in our faces?”

“Charlie’s Law is very straightforward in this situation, and ten grand is basically nothing to a billion-dollar company,” he says. “Definitely not worth the expense and bad PR of a court case they know they’d lose. I don’t anticipate any issues.”

“What do you even need me for, then? Go look by yourself.”

“I need you to tell me what you were doing that night and why,” Quentin says. “I also know you probably remember a lot more than I do about what sources we’ve already consulted, and where we’ve already checked.”

I frown.

Quentin steps closer, looking down at me, his eyelids lowered and his mouth serious.

“We agreed to hunt for Fountain’s treasure together, Nina.

As far as I’m concerned, that agreement still stands.

” He lays a hand on my forearm as if to keep it from making any sudden movements.

I try to resent the warmth that returns to my skin like a sensual boomerang.

“What do you have to lose?” he asks softly.

It’s a good question. For the life of me I can’t think of a single thing except my heart. Again.

“Well, last time we did this, we lost our friendship,” I quip.

“Yeah. And maybe this is how we find it again.” Quentin lets his fingers fall from where they were resting above my wrist. He walks past me and smoothly steps over the porch’s divider railing.

As he opens the front door on his side of the duplex, his eyebrows shoot up and his lips settle into an even more contemplative expression than before.

“Five thousand dollars, Neen. Just think about it.”