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Harper

Eleven days left to find the mysterious Monty Montana and write the article that will save my career, no pressure!

Barb’s Pawn Shop sat in front of me like a squat brown toad.

The lightbulbs circling the sign blinked an odd pattern in a kind of desperate Morse code. It was my sixth day on the road—or fifth…seventh? Truthfully, I was more fast-food wrappers than human being at this point.

And fully convinced the treasure hunter I’d been chasing was nothing more than a ghost story.

Twilight painted the foothills surrounding the city of Santa Fe a rosy indigo.

Though that shimmering magic didn’t extend to where I now stood, in the middle of a forlorn parking lot, surrounded by shops in various stages of disrepair.

So I tilted my rental car’s side mirror to check my lipstick one last time, fixing a minuscule smear.

Tightened my bun, smoothed a stray wrinkle from my navy-blue trousers.

Then I gathered up what felt like the very last of my energy and strode inside.

Long, dusty rows of furniture and boxes stretched out in front of me.

Two sets of cluttered staircases led to the second floor, and tiny handwritten signs dangled from the shelves.

I followed the sounds of a TV, rounding a corner until I came upon a woman behind a waist-high counter, surrounded by pure chaos.

A baseball hat sat atop her long, graying hair, and she wore a Hawaiian shirt in a color I could only describe as hot tangerine .

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyes glued to the flickering screen. Her voice was rough, her lined skin ruddy and sunburned around the elbows.

I offered up my friendliest smile. “My name is Harper Hendrix, and I’m trying to track down the whereabouts of a local treasure hunter. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction. You’re Nadine, right? The owner here?”

She stiffened. Dragged her gaze to mine with a slow reluctance. “That’s me. Don’t know anything about a treasure hunter, though. This is a pawn shop. You got something you wanna offload? I’m your gal. That’s about all I can tell you.”

I stepped closer, laying a hand on the filmy countertop, and tapped my nails against the glass. “Do you know Loretta-Mae Montana? She usually goes by the nickname Monty.”

Nadine shrugged and fixed her eyes back on the TV screen.

“So you don’t know a treasure hunter named Monty Montana?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know shit, lady. Now, do you have something to sell me or what?”

I tipped forward, just slightly. “That’s strange, because I could have sworn you’re the same Nadine that I’ve been talking to on the website X Marks the Spot.”

She frowned, turning. “Couldn’t say. Though I can say that this conversation is starting to get creepy. Are you stalkin’ me or something?”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you,” I said cheerfully.

“In your public bio on the site, this pawn shop is listed as your place of business, with a note encouraging people to visit.” I arched an eyebrow.

“Now does that ring a bell? Or is there another Nadine, at another Barb’s Pawn Shop in Santa Fe, that I’m unaware of? ”

She sat back in her chair and notched the brim of her baseball cap up with a single finger. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Though you’re standing here with nothing to sell me. So I’d love to know if you and me are gonna have a problem?”

I dipped my fingers into my bag and brushed the edges of my father’s latest memoir. But it felt too early to use it to sway her, so I grabbed my pocket-size notebook instead. Flipping through the pages, I pretended to scan my handwriting.

“There’s no problem at all,” I said. “I’m simply looking for Monty, and I believe you know where to find her.”

“I don’t know who the hell that is.”

“Yet you’re bragging about knowing her on X Marks the Spot.

” I tapped a page, glancing up at Nadine to flash a sweet smile.

“We spoke earlier this week. I wanted to ask some questions about a missing fortune here in Santa Fe that you’ve been discussing in the forums. Something called… the Blackburn Diamonds?”

Nadine managed a hearty scoff, but I didn’t miss the way her gaze darted to the back of the store.

“Some people in that same forum were gossiping, claiming that Monty and her wife were the last people to make a serious play for the Blackburn Diamonds,” I continued.

“That’s when you chimed in, saying you’d sold an antique locket to Monty around the same time.

A locket that turned out to be a vital clue. ”

There was another frantic dart of her eyes, and the space between my shoulder blades prickled with awareness. “Is everything all right? Is there someone back there?”

Nadine drummed her fingers against the top of the TV. “Listen, lady—”

“Harper Hendrix,” I corrected brightly.

“Are you a cop?”

I reared back. “A… what ?”

“Are. You. A. Cop?” she bit out. “Because legally, you gotta tell me.”

“No, not even close. Wait, do I look like a—”

But she was on the move before I could finish that sentence, rounding the counter and brushing past me so deliberately that I stumbled.

“I gotta…gotta check on something,” she called over her shoulder, taking the staircase to the left, two steps at a time. “Be right back.”

Eyes narrowed, I watched her reach the top and disappear onto the second floor.

“I still have questions, though,” I yelled in response. “Nadine?”

The ceiling creaked overhead, then came the sound of a metallic whine.

Like a door being wrenched open.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing my bag.

I climbed the staircase after her, reaching a musty-smelling room filled with sheet-covered furniture.

And saw the door marked Emergency Exit about to close.

I raced across the room, then managed to slip through the remaining opening and crashed to a halt outside against a wrought-iron fire escape.

Chest heaving from the sprint, I leaned as far past the grating as I could, and spied Nadine as she rushed across the store’s parking lot.

But when I spun back around to re-open the door behind me, it wouldn’t budge.

No way back inside.

I swept the hair off my neck and fixed my bun.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Then I reassessed how high up I was—and how in the hell Nadine had managed to make it down.

Scowling at the distant asphalt, I swung one leg over and felt with my dangling foot until my heel connected with the edge of the grate below.

With two more steadying breaths, I carefully climbed my way down and landed on the first-floor fire escape.

Leaped down the final few stairs, into the parking lot, and ran toward Nadine, who had one hand on her car door, shaking her head at my approach.

“Nope,” she was saying. “I’m not talkin’ to you, Hannah.”

“It’s Harper.” I bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath. “And I’m not a cop, I’m a reporter for the New York Review —”

“You’re a reporter ?” She huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s even worse. Why can’t you all just leave Monty alone? She’s been through enough.”

I narrowed my eyes, head cocked. “Why? What happened to her?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Not at all. And I’m not trying to give Monty a hard time. I’m only out here looking for her because I want to tell her story. From what I’ve gathered, she’s lived a pretty incredible life.” I raised my palms. “That’s the truth, I swear.”

What I neglected to add, of course, was that nailing this interview was the best opportunity I had to prove to my editor that I deserved the promotion I wanted more than anything else in the world.

Well, almost anything else. Doing the one thing my dad couldn’t do was just as enticing. More than the extra cherry on top. A whole fucking bushel of fruit.

So I needed to find this treasure hunter, the one who’d simply vanished into thin air like mist evaporating at dawn. And the sullen woman in front of me was the last verified person who’d interacted with her.

Nadine pressed her lips into a thin line. But she didn’t climb into her car, merely rocked back on her heels as I finally reached her.

“Did you really sell that locket to Monty?” I asked. “Or were you just…I don’t know, trying to ride her coattails to drum up some extra business? You wouldn’t be the first person to do so.”

Color rose in her cheeks, and a small thrill of satisfaction shot through me. I slipped a hand back into my bag and clutched the book. Ready to use it as soon as I had an opening.

“I’m not trying to ride anyone’s goddamn coattails,” she said forcefully. “I sold it to her. Picked it up from a local a couple of towns over. Later she told me it ended up being a pretty important clue about the missing diamonds.”

“So where is she now?”

“Monty’s out of the game,” she said flatly. “She’s been out. Off the grid, too.”

I feigned a smile even as a surge of anxiety thrummed through me. “Then is there any risk in telling me where she’s hiding?”

She crossed her arms and leveled me with a cocky glare.

Still smiling, I revealed the trick I’d had up my sleeve: a shiny hardcover titled On Heroism: One Reporter’s Journey Into Hell…and Back. The middle-aged white man on the cover looked just serious enough for the literary crowd. And just rakish enough for his massive, adoring fan base.

Notably, this massive fan base included the sunburned woman standing in front of me. It hadn’t taken me long to search her profile and discover she was an extremely vocal member of one of my father’s many online groups.

Nadine inhaled sharply at the sight of the book. She moved to snatch it, but I held it just out of reach.

“That’s Bruce Sullivan’s latest memoir,” she said.

“Sure is.”

“But it’s not due out for two more days.” Her eyes flew to mine. “Why do you have a copy?”

I nodded toward the photo on the front. “Because he’s my dad. I always get early copies.”

“Bullshit.” Her head tilted, like she was studying me. “Prove it.”

I was already scrolling through my phone for a recent picture. “I was born Harper Sullivan, but we no longer share the same last name. Look…here he is with me and my sister at my college graduation.”

A bright recognition dawned across her face. “Holy shit. You’re Harper . From all of his stories. He talks about you and your sister all the time.”

“I’m surprised he remembered us,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Always lovely to meet a fan,” I corrected. “Speaking of, if you love his work so much, why did you laugh when I said I was a reporter, too?”

She shrugged. “That’s different. He’s a real journalist . He went to war and stuff. No offense.” Then her eyebrows pinched together beneath the brim of her ball cap. “I am sorry about what happened to your mom. It sounded awful.”

I blinked, shocked at this sliver of compassion from a near stranger. “Oh, uh…thank you. For saying that.”

Clearing my throat, I waved the book in front of me. “Listen, this is an early copy of Bruce’s newest work. A signed copy. And it’s all yours…in exchange for a bit of information, of course.”

The expression on her face was as hungry as it was prudent.

Sighing, I flipped open to the page with my dad’s signature: Here’s to the everyday heroes…

like you , he’d inscribed, followed by those confident loops in his name.

Per his publicist, these were special copies he’d wanted to send, just for me and my sister.

But when we did a bit of research in his online groups, we discovered that his “everyday heroes like you” line was standard across the board.

Nadine rocked back on her heels again. “What’s he like, your dad?”

Forgetful. Irresponsible. Dismissive .

“He’s the best,” I lied. “And this is his best memoir yet, so it’s all yours if you’d like it.”

She made a move to grab it again.

“Not so fast. We had a deal, you and me. Where’s Monty? And if you don’t know, send me to the person who does.” I held her gaze, refusing to back down. “Or give me the dirt on those missing diamonds everyone’s been talking about.”

She made me wait for it, I’d give her that. Glancing over her shoulder like she was worried someone was watching us. Removing her hat and raking her fingers through her hair. When I sighed and made a move to leave, she said, “Hold your damn horses.”

I paused, book in hand.

“There’s an antique salvage shop a couple miles past the city limits,” she admitted. “It’s called The Wreckage. Eve Bardot works there, and she’s the only person I know with a real connection to Monty. She’s kinda your best bet.”

Hope sang through my limbs as I passed the book to Nadine, who then cradled it to her chest like a newborn kitten.

“Thank you for the information,” I said. “This is so very helpful.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“I can keep a secret,” I said with a wink.

She took a step back. “Good luck with Eve. You’ll have an easier time squeezing blood from a fuckin’ stone than getting much from her.”

I began walking toward my car, pausing to toss a wide smile back at Nadine. “I’m not too worried about that. I’m extremely persistent.”