Page 11 of Finders Keepers
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.”
6
Mom sits onthe couch in the living room, her attention fully on her e-reader so she doesn’t notice me until I’m in front of her. Which is good, because it keeps her from making a quick getaway like earlier when I tried to talk to her and she slipped out the back door, mumbling something about meeting a friend for lunch before I could point out that it was after three o’clock.
She clutches her chest as I appear in her field of vision. “Nina, sweetheart. Goodness.”
“We need to chat, Mother.”
“Okay, all right,” she capitulates, placing her e-reader on the coffee table. “Go ahead.” Her chin goes up, probably to get a better view of me standing in front of her, but it also makes her look like a little kid trying to put on a brave face.
“Why did you pretend you didn’t know he was back?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Slim Shady,” I say, folding my arms in annoyed disbelief. She returns my stare, one eye narrowed as she tries to makesense of the reference. To be fair, my mother isn’t particularly known for her knowledge of early 2000s rap. “Quentin, Mom. Quentin Bell. You know, about six feet tall, reddish hair, big fan of pancakes and getting on my nerves?”
Mom presses her lips together primly.
“When I asked you yesterday, you acted like you’d never heard of him in your life, much less noticed him living next door for the last week and a half. Then this morning he’s sitting in our dining room, chatting away like it’s part of his daily routine. Why didn’t you just tell me he was here instead of being so weird about it?”
She sighs. “I didn’t mean to beweirdabout it. It’s only…”
I have to admit, it feels wrong to interrogate my mother like this. But she’s left me no choice. “It’s only what?”
“Well, you were so sad after he left, Nina.”
“What? I wasnotsad.”
Mom gives me a long look that says she vividly remembers me playing No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” on repeat for weeks after Quentin moved to Michigan to live with his mom. Which, considering he wasn’t speaking to me at all, is actually quite ironic now that I think about it.
