Page 56 of Obscurity
But for now, in this small bubble of warmth and memory, Olive let herself remember what it felt like to be loved by Jason Stewart. Even if it was only for one more night.
CHAPTER 34
ELEVEN YEARS AGO, BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, GEORGIA
As Olive’s family hiked with the Hendersons toward the first location marked on Dad’s map, they all fell into a comfortable stride through the trees. Dad talked to Mr. Henderson and Michael up front. Mom stayed with the twins at the end.
And Olive found herself walking beside a very chatty Mrs. Henderson.
“Is this your first treasure hunt?” Mrs. Henderson asked, slightly breathless from the climb. She’d chosen cute hiking boots, and Olive noticed her wincing with each step on the rocky terrain.
“No, we’ve done several,” Olive replied, the lie coming easier than it should have. She’d learned to weave truth into her father’s fictional narratives, making them more believable. “Dad has a real talent for reading historical clues.”
Her eyes brightened. “How exciting! And you’ve actually found things before?”
Olive glanced ahead to where Dad was regaling Mr. Henderson with stories of previous discoveries—silver coins from a Revolutionary War battlefield outside Savannah, jewelryburied by fleeing Confederate sympathizers near Atlanta, artifacts from forgotten settlements in the Appalachian foothills.
Each story was detailed, convincing, and probably completely fictional, but Dad told them with the passionate enthusiasm of a true historian.
She watched as he gestured animatedly, describing the painstaking research that had led to each discovery, the months of correspondence with university professors and local historical societies.
Mr. Henderson hung on every word, occasionally asking technical questions that Dad answered with impressive expertise.
“Sometimes,” Olive chose her words carefully to avoid outright lies, “Dad says treasure hunting is part history, part detective work, and part luck.”
“Your father certainly seems to know what he’s doing,” Mrs. Henderson observed, following Olive’s gaze. “Michael is absolutely fascinated. He’s been so bored lately—video games and social media don’t seem to interest him anymore. But this . . . this is bringing out a curiosity I haven’t seen in years.”
Olive felt a stab of guilt watching the teenager’s animated face as he listened to her father’s stories. Michael was asking intelligent questions about historical research methods, Civil War battle strategies, and artifact preservation.
For the first time since they’d met, he looked genuinely engaged with the world around him rather than retreating into his phone.
“How did your father first get interested in treasure hunting?” Mrs. Henderson continued.
“Family stories.” Olive fell back on one of Dad’s standard explanations. “His great-grandfather supposedly had some connection to the Civil War, and there were always legendsabout hidden family valuables. Dad started researching to see if any of it was true.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Dad expertly wove family history into his cons, making them more personal and believable. But Olive suspected his “great-grandfather” story was as fictional as Cornelius Slattery.
They reached a small clearing where an old stone foundation marked the remains of what Dad claimed was a Civil War-era homestead. The structure was real enough—probably the foundation of some long-forgotten mountain cabin—but Dad’s historical interpretation was likely pure invention.
“This is it.” Dad consulted his leather portfolio with the dramatic flair of a seasoned performer. “According to the historical records, this was the Whitmore homestead. Jeremiah Whitmore was a Union sympathizer who helped runaway slaves reach the Underground Railroad routes through Tennessee.”
Olive watched her father transform the simple stone foundation into a compelling piece of Civil War history, complete with details about the family who’d supposedly lived there, their political affiliations, and their connection to Cornelius Slattery’s flight north.
He pulled out a professional-looking metal detector from his backpack and began sweeping the area with scientific precision.
“According to the map, Cornelius stopped here to rest his horses and resupply,” Dad explained. “The riddle suggests he might have buried a small cache nearby as a test for anyone following his trail. Something to confirm they were on the right track before revealing the location of the main treasure.”
The Hendersons watched with rapt attention as Dad methodically covered the clearing, explaining his technique and the historical logic behind his search pattern. Even the twins stood quietly as if sensing that something important was about to happen.
Despite her skepticism, Olive held her breath. Part of her—the part that was still fourteen and wanted to believe in magic—hoped that maybe this time Dad’s stories might be real.
The metal detector began beeping near a cluster of old oak trees, the steady electronic pulse growing faster and more insistent as Dad moved closer to whatever was buried beneath the soil.
Dad’s face lit up with what appeared to be genuine surprise as he knelt to examine the ground, though Olive noticed how his “surprise” was perfectly timed and expertly performed.
“Well, I’ll be.” He carefully brushed soil away from something metallic, his movements deliberate as he built suspense for his audience. “Look at this.”
With the reverence of an archaeologist uncovering a priceless artifact, he pulled out what appeared to be an antique compass, tarnished with age but intact. The brass surface caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves, and Olive could see initials engraved on its surface that matched the name on their treasure map: C.S.
