Recent satellite imagery shows man-made earthworks—networks of avenues, ditches, and other enclosures that suggest a portion of the Amazon once teemed with civilization. Long before satellites revealed any evidence, a handful of true adventurers set off to uncover what had only been legend at the time.
In the early 1930s, Edward Valentina was one of those explorers, encouraged by his wife, paired with his friend, and armed with only a hunch, a belief that the Amazon held untold secrets for whoever cracked it open. He kept a journal of his travels to South America, his trek across Brazil, and his adventures deep in the rain forest, documenting one of those legendary lost cities and the riches inside it.
Or so they say.
Only bits and pieces of his accounts still exist, housed at the Exploration Society, but he reportedly ventured deep enough into the heart of the jungle to find much more than wildlife—he unearthed proof of thriving civilizations that existed long before European explorers sailed across the oceans.
To find those accounts would be tremendous for my field.
To locate the treasures would mean mind-boggling TV ratings.
When I grab the dusty metal box hidden under the floorboard—secret compartment indeed—my heart thunders against my ribs.
The thump, thump, thump echoes in my brain, pounds in my ears. My fingers itch to yank open this box.
Because this has to be it.
This has to hold the key to Edward Valentina’s greatest adventures.
Time stands still as I imagine what might be inside. Finding the treasure for the family would be incredible. It would be one more mountain for me to climb, and I desperately want to be the best at what I do. I want to honor my father’s last wishes, written in the letter I keep with me, “to live big, to live your best life, to take every great chance that comes your way.”
That’s why everything that has my name on it—my shows, my books, my expeditions—needs to be excellent.
That’s my mission.
And as I glance at Presley, it occurs to me that I’m on the precipice of something great with her. That we’re heading down an uncharted path. I have no idea where it leads, but I want to follow it.
I want to follow it with her.
“What is it?”
I kneel next to the opening. The slat of the floorboard rests against the wall, as if it had been waiting for someone to step on it. To activate it. Maybe waiting for someone to find . . . this?
“It’s like a lockbox.” I can barely contain my excitement. “And it doesn’t even look like it needs a key.”
“Let me see, let me see.” Her voice brims with an enthusiasm I haven’t heard in it before, and I love the sound.
Rising up on my knees, I brandish the box, showing her a circular inset by the opening. “This has to be it, Presley,” I say, unable to tear my eyes off the find.
“Let me put on rubber gloves and take a look at it,” she says, ever practical, but I can hear the notes of longing in her tone. She’s not here simply to document a home. She wants something. She wants this to be important.
“Wait. I can’t believe I almost forgot. We need to record this.”
“But your crew is gone.”
“They are, but I can handle a camera too.” Setting the box on the floor, I take a small handheld from my jeans pocket. These days, a little camera works well enough for the occasional segment.
“Let’s do this right. We’ll put it on the desk. The light’s better there, since it’s right by the window, and I can open it carefully.”
“Now you’re talking.” I flash her a smile and she shoots one right back at me. Hers is full of hope.
I turn on the camera and shoot.
Tenderly, as if she’s clutching a fragile glass globe, she lifts the box and sets it on the desk, the sunset light streaming through the window, illuminating reddish tones on the box.
She purses her lips then blows air across the metal lockbox, little dust particles floating in a halo as she cleans it off with her breath. Then she reaches for a soft cloth from her jeans pocket, wiping away any remaining dust. With the box now clean, I take a better look at it. “There’s a . . . what is that?” I ask, pointing with my free hand to the opening and the raised emblem on it.
“That’s a ribbon.” She sounds like she’s trying to make sense of it too. “An emblem of a pink ribbon.”
Furrowing my brow, I zoom in on the marking. The similarities come together. Presley must figure it out too, because when I turn to her, we’re both smiling, giddy grins that come with possibility. “It’s the same style,” I begin, pointing to the mirror.
“As the elephant,” she adds with hushed excitement.
“And the monkey. His foot. His shoe.”
“Yes, there was some sort of marking on it.”
“Open it,” I whisper, filming her lovely face, then her hands. “I can’t wait any longer.”
She pushes on the circular inset with her thumb, but it doesn’t give.
I groan impatiently. “Now, do we have to find a key too? Is there a hidden door that’s hiding it?”
When I meet her gaze, she’s smiling wickedly, shaking her head. “I think you already found it.”
14
Hunter
I wait for her to explain what she means. “Where’s the secret key? Is it in the xylophone? Do I need to tap out a tune?” I suggest playfully.
“It’s right in front of you. Hidden in plain sight.”
I breathe out hard, the impatient part of me wanting her to speed this up now.
But she loves taking her time. “Sometimes a toy is just a toy, and sometimes it’s more.”
She reaches behind her, plucking the monkey off the desk. She hands it to me, foot first.
I arch a brow. “The monkey’s foot?”
“I could be wrong, but it looks to be exactly the same size, and it’s the opposite—the yin to the yang.”
“Ohhhhh.” It comes out as ten syllables, because buzzers whir in my head and lights blink. “Very clever.”
“See if it works,” she says, then motions for me to give her the camera. “I’ll shoot. You open it.”
We trade off, and I press the shoe of the monkey into the circular opening, turning, turning, until the monkey’s foot catches just right, two puzzle pieces sliding together.
I half expect a click. Some sort of portentous sound, like in a movie when motion sets off a booby trap. Instead, the box simply whines as I push the top open easily with my thumb.
The inside is lined with black velvet. In the middle of the velvet lies a skeleton key. A piece of ribbon hangs from it, and on the end of the ribbon is a note on yellowed paper, worn from the years.
“What does it say?” she asks in a whisper, and I’m thankful for it. You can’t speak at a regular volume in times like this.
She zooms in closer as I reach for the key, turn it over, and read the note.
* * *
Hello, our dear sweet loves!
* * *
You’ve found the treasure. We hope it didn’t take you too long. If you’re ready, all you have to do is look inside.
* * *
With love,
E & G, most affectionately known as Mom and Dad
* * *
P.S. This shouldn’t be too hard. Just look.
* * *
A long squiggly line runs the length of the postscript to the edge of the paper.
Presley stares at me, her face transforming with awe. “Edward and Greta. They left a note for their children.”
Her eyes sparkle. I bet mine glimmer too. Because hello, treasure. “X marks the spot. This man was a great explorer. And we’re going to be the ones to fully understand his impact.”
How foolish of me to think the treasure would have been here in this box. Who would leave treasure in the floorboards? This is a treasure map instead, and in some ways, that’s even better.
Because it gives me a story to tell on my show.
I s
ay it aloud, the weight of it registering. “This is a treasure map, Presley.” I laugh, and I can’t stop laughing. Because holy hell, I’m holding something precious.
“I think it might be,” she says reverently. “But this letter is a treasure too. Do you have any idea how old it likely is?”
“Yeah, really old,” I say eagerly, ready to dive in. “Let’s follow the clues.”
She darts out a hand, pressing it against my chest. “Hold on, eager beaver. We need to save this. Handle it carefully. This could be incredibly valuable in the family’s auction. Let me just put it away safely.”
“Right. Of course, careful beaver.” She’s right. This letter could be a precious memory for the Valentina grandchildren who hired us.
Once she’s slid it into a plastic bag, carefully sealing it up, I resume shooting. “Okay, where do we ‘look inside’? In the box?”
“Maybe under the velvet.”
With those careful fingers, she feels along the edge of the lining, her teeth digging into her lip the whole time. It’s an adorable look, intense and full of concentration. She tugs at the velvet gently, but it doesn’t give.
Her shoulders sag. “It’s not here. There is no secret compartment.”
“Wait, honey. It’s not here we’re supposed to look,” I say, because I’ve got it now.
Her captivating blue eyes meet mine, and I lower the camera briefly, gesturing to the letter she sealed up.
“That squiggly line on the letter. It’s the pink ribbon. The pink ribbon matches the elephant. They’re all connected. The elephant, the ribbon, the monkey. They’re all the same style.”
Now it’s her turn to whisper. “Ohhhh.”
“What if the key opens the mirror?” I ask.
I reach for her hand, the one that’s holding the key. She wraps her fingers around mine.
“Hunter, you called me ‘honey.’”
“Did I?” I ask, surprised, then I turn off the camera.
“You’ve done it a few times.”
“Huh. I guess old habits die hard.” I gaze into her eyes. “Along with kissing you.”
“That was out of habit?”
It’s the first we’ve mentioned the kiss that fell by the wayside when I stumbled into a secret compartment and unearthed a letter from another century.
I shake my head. “Actually, no. It was completely intentional. And it was absolutely incredible.”
“It was,” she says, then her eyes drift to the mirror. “But right now, it’d be incredible to see what’s behind that.”
She raises the key and unlocks it.
Inside on a shelf, another letter awaits.
Dear Children,
* * *
You looked inside. Well done! We’re proud of you, and we want you to know that. You are our greatest accomplishments, our grandest adventure.
* * *
But the adventures aren’t over. We’ve put together a final one just for you . . .
* * *
Follow our story.
* * *
You alone know how it began, and if you want to hear the rest, you’ll find it starts in the heart of Old New York near the five-mile stone, inside a home, up the stairs, and behind a place near and dear to your father.
* * *
But don’t forget what we taught you: research comes before the search.
* * *
Love,
Mom and Dad
15
Presley
I couldn’t stop if I tried.
So I don’t.
We don’t.
Searching for a place to conduct a proper dissection of every single sentence in this letter, we slide into his limo.
Hunter swipes a few keys on his phone, asking Google for the best diner nearby.
“Diner okay?” he asks, then a grin seems to tug at his lips. “Or should I say, are you still the reigning queen of diners?”
That’s what he used to call me. It’s a crown I wear with pride. “I’m still hopelessly devoted to them. They’re my guilty pleasure, given that my normal dinner is a salad.”
He wags a finger. “Never feel guilty about pleasure.”
But I do feel a little guilty about that kiss earlier.
And I feel guilt over something else too.
As he scrolls through options on his screen, I stare out the window of the car, repeating words in my head. “In the heart of Old New York near the five-mile stone, inside a home, up the staircase, then another, and behind a place near and dear to your father . . .”
The answer to this riddle seems to be on the tip of my tongue, but something nags at me.
I’m not sure if it’s our job to play “X marks the spot” through someone’s correspondence, and I need to figure that out before I go into the heart of Old New York.
Lenny whisks us away, taking us to a roadhouse diner where a sign reading Sally’s Sideshow Café blasts in pink neon against the twilight sky.
“Want anything, Lenny?” Hunter asks as we exit the car.
“I’m all good, but I never turn down chocolate milkshakes,” he says.
“Words to live by,” I say, giving the driver a smile as we head inside, grab an empty booth, then scan the menu.
“I’m starving. I can’t think straight without food,” Hunter mutters as he peruses the offerings.
“Starving?” I tease. “Are you sure you’re actually starving?”
His eyes are full of murder as he clasps his belly. “I’m positive. This is complete starvation I’m experiencing.”
“Drama king,” I say as I pore over an encyclopedia’s worth of options on a menu the size of a phone book. “What do you do when you’re out in the wilderness and get hungry?”
“I eat.”
“I figured as much. But what do you eat?”
He smirks. “I don’t eat fries, burgers, and shakes, that’s for sure.” He slaps the menu closed with panache. “Which is why I’m ordering that here.”
“And when you’re trekking across a raging river teeming with piranhas, for instance, what do you eat? Piranhas that you singlehandedly spear for your next meal?”
He whistles in appreciation. “Damn, you make me sound impressive even to myself.”
“And that’s no small feat. So what do you eat in the wild?”
“Bugs,” he says, pushing out his bottom lip and exaggerating the word.
I arch a skeptical brow. “Do you really though?”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed and intense. “You haven’t actually seen my show, have you?”
“Maybe not.”
“Just say it out loud. I won’t be hurt.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds amused as he raises his right hand. “There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have watched Hunter Armstrong’s show and those who are going to watch it.”
Grabbing a napkin, I ball it up and toss it at him, but I’m laughing.
Like a ballplayer, he catches it smoothly. “I’ll convert you, Presley. I just know I will.”
“Doubtful. Especially if you eat bugs on it. Besides, isn’t that what all you adventurer guys do on your shows? Eat bugs and grab rattlesnakes by the throat then roast them over a barbecue pit?”
He scoffs. “Guys who do that are going for the gross-out factor. Can I eat bugs? Sure. Can I also tell you which ones are edible, as well as the crunchiest and most savory? Definitely. I do know how to survive in the wild for months, and that often requires bugs. But here’s the thing: there’s no need to eat bugs if—wait for it—you pack food correctly. I generally know how long I’m going to be on an expedition. We aren’t living in a world anymore where our plane crashes in the Andes with no one able to find my crew and me for seventy days so we resort to cannibalism.”
“Cannibalism is one of my hard limits too.”
A smile seems to sneak across his face. “You were always such a smart-ass. I see you still are.”
“So are you.”
�
�Then we are birds of a feather,” he says, a little flirty, a little inviting. It’s a throwaway comment, but the way he says it, emphasizing the “we,” makes my heart skitter.
Skittering is dangerous.
Skittering hearts ought to be put in their place.
Fortunately, the waitress swings by to take our order, saving me from myself.
I opt for a salad and fries, since that’s the best kind of balanced diet. Hunter orders the trio he was longing for. “And I’ll need a chocolate milkshake to go.”
“Can I interest you in a chocolate milkshake, miss?” the curly redhead asks me, tapping her pencil against the pad of paper in her hand.
Across the table, Hunter mouths, Don’t feel guilty.
I turn to the waitress. “And I’ll have a chocolate milkshake too, with a side order of I’d never feel guilty about something so tasty.”
Chuckling, she writes down the additional order. “I promise you won’t feel guilty, and you won’t regret it either. Sally makes the best milkshakes.”
“I can honestly say I’ve never regretted a milkshake.”
She slides the pencil over her ear. “Nor have I.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Men though? I’ve regretted men many times over. Jobs? Oh, yeah. But milkshakes? Never ever.”
With a wink, she spins on her Keds and heads for the kitchen.
When I return my gaze to Hunter, he’s staring at me as if I’m the object of all his curiosity. It’s the same way he studied me before he kissed me.
My stomach swan dives as I recall that kiss. The intensity etched in his brown eyes, the heat in them. His eyes have always drawn me in because they reveal him. He can’t ever seem to hide his wishes with eyes like that—eyes that seem true, vulnerable, and beautiful.
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