I stride past all the exhibits on display. The object poking out from the wall gets closer and closer. At the very last second, I pull a bobby pin from my hair and toss it onto the floor.
I drop down onto my hands and knees, pretending to look for the pin. I crawl over to the base of the wall, and there it is: a round brass pipe that sticks out maybe three or four inches below the bottom shelf. There’s a cover over the end of the pipe, with several words embossed on top. I lean closer and peer at the writing.
This building is the work ofGeorge W. Kelham
My breath hitches. I feel like I should stand up and grab the others. But one person crawling on the ground in an artmuseum is already conspicuous. I can’t pull three more people down here with me.
I reach out tentatively and touch the brass cover on the pipe. My fingers find a latch on one side. I pull gently until the lid releases with a small click and falls into my hand. The hollow space within the pipe seems dark and empty.
I reach inside.
Oh…my…God.
At the exact moment my hand connects with the edge of a smooth wooden box, I hear a set of footsteps cross over the floor. Someone kneels down directly next to me, and my heart plummets. I recognize his breathing, can smell the mix of citrus and Old Spice deodorant on his clothing, before I even look at him.
“Hey, V,” Cam murmurs over my shoulder. “Ex marks the spot, huh?”
Chapter Twenty-One
A million scenarios rush through my head at once. Ideally, I was going to pull the wooden box out, slip it into my jacket, then grab Gabriel, Julia, and Sunny and get the heck out of here. Ideally, I wasn’t going to see Cam at school until Monday, where I would casually mention that, oh, yeah, I found the treasure fromGay Treasures. Ideally, the whole city would already be in the middle of celebrating me. I could see the headline in theSan Francisco Chronicleas I waved the paper in Cam’s face:
SURPRISINGLY ARTISTIC-MINDED TEEN FINDS LOCAL TREASURE
But Cam’s current presence, his hand mere inches from mine, has forced me back to the drawing board.
I could scream. But then, of course, I would probably have to deal with everyone in the room looking at me. And thesecurity guard coming over and asking why the heck my hand is halfway inside a pipe on the wall. Plus, I feel like a screaming person almost always leads to an ambulance, no matter what they’re screaming about. And I just cannot be responsible for wasting a bunch of EMTs’ time and then being charged hundreds of dollars a few weeks later.
So that’s out.
I could just take the box and run. I know running isn’t allowed in museums, but I’m pretty sure if you do run, the consequence is that you have to leave. And I would already be on my way out! Unfortunately, I do know that Cam is a way faster runner than I am. And at this point, he’s already proven that he doesn’t mind yanking something directly out of my hands.
Think think think.
Cam plays dirty. He’s a total Ian. So, what would Ben Gates do?
Someone kneels against my other side.
“I’m open,” Sunny murmurs.
The meaning registers, and immediately I pass the box over to her. She rises and speed walks toward the central gallery entrance.
Cam stands after her. “Hey!” he calls out.
The security guard looks over at us, but Cam hardly seems to notice. He takes off after Sunny. I place the cover back on the end of the pipe and follow him.
“Wait!” I say. “Cam, stop!” I am not even attempting a museum-level volume.
Other people in the gallery, including Gabriel and Julia, all turn away from the exhibits to gawk at us. Gabriel opens his hands in a question. But I don’t have time to stop and explain myself right now. By the time I reach the front entrance, I see Cam in a full-out sprint across the plaza toward the new library.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Luckily, Sunny is so far ahead that I don’t even see her. She must’ve already gone inside. I pause a moment, thinking. Sunny’s a sitting duck in the library. We have to find a way out of this. I turn around and see the museum gift shop behind me. There, in a case over the main counter, is a collection of fancy pens placed in narrow brown boxes.
Another plan B.
“Do the boxes come with those pens?” I ask the person at the register.
They nod, and I grab my bank card from where I jabbed it into my back pocket after donating at the front desk. “Great. I’ll take two.”
