Page 77 of Finders Keepers
“The only thing I could think of to make it right was to double down. When I came back to my dad’s house to visit for Christmas, I would get you to go to Sprangbur with me, and I could just…try the whole thing again. I had no clue what to say to you in the interim, and I figured I could apologize for the silence once I saw you. It was only supposed to be a few months. But then my dad wound up getting a new job and moving away really soon after, and I never did get to come back to Catoctin. The plan fell apart again. I thought I had no way to make things better without being able to give you the treasure as a consolation prize. And a large part of me still figured you didn’t care that much about me anyway, so it probably wasn’t even bothering you that I was gone.”
“Of course I cared about you, you fucking dumbass.”
He throws up his hands. “Well, fifteen-year-old Quentin wasn’t particularly convinced of that, and honestly, thirty-two-year-old Quentin has some major fucking doubts too. I know you didn’t turn down the job offer from Malbyrne yet, Nina.”
“Only because I’m still waiting to hear back from the library! I’m not about to dismiss an opportunity that might be the only one I have if this Mrs. MacDonald thing falls through.”
“Sure. Tell yourself that,” he says.
I scrub my hands over my face. I need to focus on the treasure instead of my emotions before I implode. “What did you do with the treasure after you found it?”
“Well, I wasn’t able to go back for it the night we got caught since I was in a whole lot of trouble with my dad, so I left it at Sprangbur and figured either it would still be there when I returned or it wouldn’t be. When I came back to town at the end of May and found out from your mom you were coming home, I immediately went to check. And it was right where I left it. So I grabbed it, figuring I’d tell you everything as soon as possible and give it to you to do with as you saw fit. To try to make amends for what happened between us. But then…the moment I saw you again, Nina, it was just like before. I was overcome by this absolute, all-encompassing desire to be near you, whatever it took. I was an awkward, gangly little boy again, wanting your attention and not knowing any other way to get it.” He pauses. “The money…”
“You can’t think that’s my primary concern right now.”
“It’s just that…I lied about that too. Charlie’s Law isn’t real. I made it up when it seemed like you weren’t going to agree to start looking again.”
Of course. I knew it sounded too absurd. I should have followed my instincts. But I think part of me didn’t want to examine it too closely. I wanted the excuse to say yes. “That explains why you had no problem going up to seventy percent, I guess. Because I was never meant to get anything at all, so it didn’t really matter.”
“I was going to give you the money when I sold Charlene’s ring.”
My head falls back against the seat. “God, Quentin. This is all kinds of fucked-up.” My fingers curl, as if they wish they were claws.
“I know,” he says.
There’s a long silence as we both stew in various intense, uncomfortable emotions. And then something suddenly makes sense. “July Fourth,” I say. “When you took me to Sprangbur and said you had a surprise…”
“Yes. I was going to tell you then. That was my intention at least, to take you there and tell you everything I felt so you would understand why I did it, and then, if that went well, I would show you the stone in the cenotaph. Beg for your forgiveness. But I hadn’t expected you to return my feelings, then or now, and it was so overwhelming. To feel like you wanted tochooseme, Nina, when that’s all I’d ever wanted. And we…we got sidetracked.”
“So you just decided to keep lying to me?” I ask.
“It wasn’t a conscious decision. I really was trying to do better by you. Iwantto do better, to be better. But when I’m with you, sometimes ‘better’ gets fuzzy. Sometimes the stupid little boy part of my brain takes control instead of the man trying to be worthy of you and—”
“What you mean is that you thought you could get away with it.” He opens his mouth to counter the accusation, but I cut in. “Stop. Just, stop.” My fingernails dig into my palms as I squeeze my fists in my lap, the barrage of feelings overwhelming. “Where’s the box now?” I ask. “You said it isn’t at Sprangbur now. You moved it again?”
“It’s at my house, in the kitchen. I went back for it while you were with your parents yesterday. Because I was going to tell you this morning.”
“What’s your excuse for not doing it that time?” I ask.
Quentin sighs heavily. “You seemed so excited about meeting Emily and Eugene. I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”
“Right, because this isn’t ruining anything at all.”
“I know that I messed this up,” he says. “That I’ve been selfish, that I’ve hurt you. You have every right in the world to hate me.”
I’m furious, hurt, confused, but no part of mehatesQuentin Bell. Admitting that aloud feels a lot like forgiving him, though, which I am in no way willing to do yet. So instead of telling him that, despite everything, I can’t help butnothate him, I say, “You are going to drive us back to Catoctin, and we are going to open that damn box. I want to be done with this, Quentin.”
35
Our journey fromRichmond to Catoctin immediately takes the prize for Most Uncomfortable Time I’ve Spent in a Car. Which is impressive considering that, freshman year of college, I carpooled with a girl from my dorm and her girlfriend to get back to Maryland for winter break and they had a massive blowout fight and broke up about twenty minutes into the trip.
Quentin doesn’t even try to talk to me. Which is good, because I am not at all in the mood for more conversation. He stares out the windshield with the intensity of someone trying to drive in whiteout conditions and grips the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers become colorless from the knuckle down. They don’t regain blood flow until he parks in front of our duplex two hours later.
Wordlessly, I follow him into his house, where Faustine greets us with a haunting and distressingly deepmeeeeewow. Quentin marches past her, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. I follow him, somehow managing to avoid trippingon the cat weaving through my legs as I walk. He slides open the drawer next to the sink, reaches into the very back, and pulls out what appears to be a wad of grocery bags. Those are peeled away to reveal a wooden box, approximately five inches by four inches, and another four inches high. It has stars carved into the top, reminiscent of Sprangbur’s front door.
He hands it over to me. “Here,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “It’s all yours.”
I examine it, looking for some clue as to how it opens. “Do you know how it might—”
