Page 65 of These Reckless Hearts

A sharp knock sounds on the door. “You’re done.”

I keep rinsing my hair. “You got blood on my pants. Any chance I can get a new set of clothes?”

The guy—I can’t pinpoint which one it is—sighs. When he doesn’t answer immediately, I take his silence as a yes. I finish in the shower, stepping back out gingerly. It feels like I’ve run a marathon, and I’ve barely even moved. Bending for the pants I took off, I breathe through the pain and feel around for the stolen knife. It’s still there. Still hidden, thank God. It may be of no use whatsoever, but it’s the only weapon I have, and I’m going to take it. Finn taught me that—use anything at my disposal.

I tuck the blade in the shower, sliding it all the way to the edge where hopefully it will go unnoticed.

Just as I step out, my current guard comes in. “Ugh, God,” he turns away in disgust. “You’re young enough to be my daughter.”

“How lucky for her to have a father like you,” I deadpan.

He scowls, plopping new clothes on the vanity. “You have thirty seconds to dress.” He slams the door behind him, and I don’t waste time grabbing the knife from the shower and slipping it into the new camo pants. I dress through the pulsing pain, and my head swims. When I’m finished, I catch my reflection in the understated square mirror above the vanity. I’m pale, dark shadows riddling the area beneath my eyes. I also look exactly likethem, and it bugs the shit out of me.

The new pants are a little baggier this time, which allow me to actually fasten them over my side. It also helps toward concealing the only weapon I have.

When the door opens again, I’m running my hands through my hair, letting the water soak through the back of my shirt. It’s one of the guys who restrained my hands during the torture. “Follow me,” he demands.

He turns left out of the bathroom, and I already know he’s not taking me back to the main room. The door to the bedroom I was in before is wide open, and he stands to the side, gesturing for me to enter.

I step in, hoping I’ll be alone for a little while and the torture will at least take a break. “We’ll let you know when Lance is ready to see you again.”

I raise my hand and flip him off. He smirks. “If I were you, I’d rest that leg.”

“Does any of this goodwill extend to some pain reliever?”

“I thought you were tougher than that.”

“Fuck off, then,” I snap, moving toward the mattress. I crouch with my leg out straight so I don’t pull at the wet bandages. I hiss through clenched teeth. Every movement I make hurts somewhere. Either the sting of my cuts, the throb in my side, or the general ache of being tossed and turned in a washing machine-like river.

The coils give way as I lie on the lumpy makeshift bed. The door shuts, leaving me to myself. I find the most comfortable spot and stay there, only looking at the window to see if I can figure out what time it is—or at the very least what part of the day. It must be the middle of the night because the shades I ruined earlier are still on the floor, but no light streams into the room.

My mind wanders to Stone and the guys. If he’s alive, Wyatt and Lucas have to be okay, too, right? He was the one in worst shape. They must have dragged him out of the water. I rest my palm over the beating pain in my chest. Anguish washes over me, but I close my eyes and with each breath, I force hope into each pump until it spreads over my limbs in a natural pain reliever, even if it is only in my mind.

I stare at the ceiling, imagining the Wilder treasure map stretching out over its length, the squares and x’s popping up outside the valley like stars in the sky. I breathe easy, knowing I still have it at least in my brain. I could probably draw it out by hand again. It wouldn’t be the same but it would be something. The image fades to the valley between the cliff faces—our destination. The picture is so clear in my mind. I hate that I’ll have to show Jacobs where we’re searching, but I don’t have another choice.

He's going to be irate when I can’t produce the treasure. I already know it. He doesn’t understand a single thing about the search. Yes, we are closer than we were before, but I don’t know how much. We can’t even figure out the squares and x’s.

Agitation quickly overwhelms me even though it’s ludicrous. It took us almost two hundred years to find the first clue, we’re not going to find the next over night.

But if it means saving Wyatt, Stone, and Lucas, I’m going to have to. Jacobs was right. He holds all the cards.

I conjure up the map again. It would’ve been too easy to make a key, wouldn’t it? A little notation in the bottom right corner that said the squares mean this and the x’s mean that. Why show the valley and the squares and x’s? They must go together.

My father’s belief was that the symbols represented certain landmarks or mountain features. If we could figure those out, it would help us find which valley the lantern was buried in.

Maybe I’ve been taking that thought as gospel when I shouldn’t? Stone is the one who figured out that the letters under the lantern were probably inscribed on it. What if I came at this with fresh eyes? Completely throwing out everything I thought we knew?

We’ve now found those same symbols on the mapinthe valley. The problem? The symbols on the map aren’t in the valley. They’re outside it, scattered across the map like fireflies.

Since they match they have to meansomethingthough.

I keep the image up of the map and overlay the picture of the valley. I gasp and sit up. Searing pain reminds me that’s a terrible fucking idea, so I lie back down, holding my hand over my side. The pulsing reminder of my injuries can’t black out the idea taking shape in my head. I can’t fucking believe it. It might be my mind trying to force a round peg into a square hole, but I think—it’s possible, anyway—that if we stood in the right location and held the map up, the squares and x’s would match where they are on the cliff faces, like it’s a map within a map.

I’m running through the idea in my head when loud voices pique my attention. I sit up only to lie back down again in discomfort, but the noise gets closer and closer. My heart hammers in my chest as I listen through the cheap, thin walls. I hope it’s not my mind playing tricks on me because I think I hear Stone Jacobs, curse words spewing from his mouth.

The closed door protests as someone jostles the handle. More insults fly before someone calls out, “Let him pass!”

The barrier between us flies open, and a distraught Stone stands in the entryway.

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