“A code?” I ask, unconvinced. Other than how evident it was he loved his wife, the letter is boring. Nothing out of the ordinary like clues in treasure hunting movies I’ve watched. Even Nicolas Cage inNational Treasurecouldn’t convince me this was something worth chasing.
Cap grunts; Nash rereads.
“Did you go to all these places?” I ask Cap, remembering he was arrested in White Point Garden.
“Several times.”
“And?”
“And—” He takes a sip of coffee and holds it in his mouth too long before swallowing. “Here we are.”
This is ridiculous.
I look at Nash—he’s as unconvinced as I am. “What do you think?”
“Not sure. Seems like a stretch but ...”
“But what?”
“But ... stranger things have happened.”
I almost laugh. “Like?”
His eyebrows lift. “Like you giving up on laughing and telling your fiancé I’m dead.”
Cap finds this hilarious; I glare at him before returning my attention to the papers.
I don’t care what they think about my laughing frequency, I’ve come too far to start doubting this plan. I need the money. I don’t have time for laughing. The business doesn’t. Bennie’s tuition doesn’t. Mom’s surgery that’s now ten weeks away doesn’t.
“How far apart are these places?” I ask, wishing I knew more about the city or what any of this means. “Can we visit them all in a day?”
Nash says, “May?—”
Cap cuts him off. “Can’t rush it.” He leans back in his stool and taps his cane on the tile floor of the kitchen. “Right, Nash? There’s a term for it, ain’t there?”
Nash tilts his head, seemingly confused as he takes a final sip of his coffee then sets the empty mug in a large farmhouse sink. “A term?”
“For needing to take your time in historical endeavors. Not rushing. Slowing down to really see what’s in front of you. Exploring every angle.”
Slowing down?
“We need to rush,” I insist, pulse picking up as the wordforeclosurescrolls across my mind like a news ticker. “I have to get back. I can’t affordnot to rush.” Nash looks at me.Right.“My clients are anxious. For the coins. For their collection.” And for good measure: “And I have a wedding to get ready for.”
“Don’t work that way,” Cap reiterates. “We gotta emulate Anson’s timeline. Really soak in the experience of what he was trying to plan for his wife. Win her over.”
“Anson’s timeline,” Nash repeats slowly, understanding dawning on him as he does. “Win her over. That’s right. Historians call it—” He takes his glasses off. It’s criminal he looks just as good with them as without. “The Practice of Actual Time in Historical Recollection and Reenactment. The PATHRR. Boring stuff but does the trick.”
“Yep,” Cap agrees. “Knew there was a fancy name for it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means we have to take as much time as Anson took or we might miss something,” Nash explains. “We could technically go to all these places in a day, but to see it the way Anson would have in 1865, we’ll need ...” He sucks on his lips as he looks at the ceiling, seemingly pondering the route. “A fortnight, like he said.”
“Two weeks?” I shriek, money signs flashing before my eyes.
“Your collectors can’t really expect you to find a treasure in days, can they?” Nash asks.
“Be a tall ask if they did,” Cap says, like no big deal, tapping his cane.
