“Oh God,” I said. “Were you friends?”
He shook his head. “Camp wasn’t a bonding experience. We were all there to survive and get the hell out in one piece.”
“Did you tell your dad?”
“Ironside Captain Jansen? Come on. You know he applauded their methods. I was stuck, and there was no way forward but through. So I just hunkered down and did what they asked.”
A tense silence hung between us.
“What about classes?” I asked. “Did they actually teach? You graduated, or... ?”
He nodded. “Graduated top of my class, if you can believe it.Not sure why Harvard rejected my application. Guess ‘being tortured by retired army drill sergeants’ wasn’t on their list of acceptable extracurriculars.”
His words opened up a hollow space in my chest that ached for him. I may not have known thenewSeb all that well, but I still recognized the core of him. And I knew from the way he avoided my eyes that he wasn’t lashing out at me. He was putting himself down, trying to make me believe he was jaded. And could I really blame him if he were? God knew I’d be if I had to endure what he had.
But I couldn’t help but think that the boy I once knew wasn’t cynical. A smart-ass, yes. But he’d always looked toward the brighter side of things.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” I told him very seriously.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m okay, for real. That’s all in the past.”
“Wewere in the past, you and I, but look at us now, solving ciphers together. Some things don’t stay in the past.”
“Want to know a secret?” he asked in a low voice. “Being separated from all of you was the worst part of boot camp. Not any of that other stuff.”
This surprised me. “But we weren’t even speaking at the time.”
He nodded. “I know. I guess it was sort of a wake-up for me. Camp finally gave me time to think about everything—about Pretty Paul and the Vanderburgs. The Wags. All the mistakes I’d made... I just wanted my friends back, that’s all.”
His revelation caught me by surprise, and I felt a tenderness toward him that I hadn’t in years.
“Oh, Seb,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Coward, I guess.”
I shook my head. He was a lot of things, but not a coward.
His hand hesitantly reached for mine. I looked down between us as our fingers intertwined. One thumb made a single, slow stroke down the back of my hand, causing a riot of pleasurable tingles to rush across my skin.
Uh-oh. Not again.
His hand squeezed mine briefly, then he released me. And I was left speechless and a little afraid of my own feelings.
“No need to spoil our day thinking about depressing shit when we have treasure to find. Come on,” he said, brightening as he headed out of the office. As if his thoughts couldn’t be further from mine. “Miles to go before we sleep. Let’s check out the jail cells.”
I schooled my features to relax. The last thing I needed was him teasing me about having schoolgirl feelings toward him after all this time.
Seb poked his head into the office across the hallway, but there was a small group of people inside. He shook his head at me, and we continued through the old police station, stopping in an evidence room lined with wooden crates that were all staged to look like confiscated goods and stolen property from the 1920s. A lot of generic rum and plastic tommy guns. It was the least exciting part of the museum, merely a recreation. But I also spent my time sneaking looks at Seb instead of paying attention to our surroundings. And while we were walking through, I began to feel as though the other museum patrons were staring at us.
Or maybe I was still ruffled by Seb’s confession. I tried my best to put it out of my mind.
At the end of the hall were the holding cells. All of them were re-created scenes, much like the evidence room. The cell at theend was where Wyrd Jack was held while he awaited trial and transfer to the state prison, and inside was the same small bed in the other cells, same toilet and sink. But the walls were lined with various drawings, bizarre notes, and photos cut from magazines. They were all bolted to the wall under plexiglass because some treasure hunter from Ohio tried to steal them in the late 1970s.
Hanging above the bed was the original copy of “Prison Poem.” A camera pointed down at it. Several people gawked into the cell from the hallway while a couple others crammed themselves into the cell to inspect it up close and personal.
“Nothing’s changed here,” Seb noted quietly. And when the woman in front of him moved forward, he took out the skeleton key from his pocket and discreetly stuck it inside the jail cell door. “Whomp, whomp,” he said softly. “Not even remotely the right size.”
“Hmm.” As we wandered away from the prison cell, I got the funny feeling that someone was watching us. But when I looked around, I didn’t see anyone suspicious.
