Slowly, Blake breathes in and out, closing his eyes and pressing his hands together, then burying his face in them. “Never have kids, you two. Just don’t.”
“Aw, she’s a lot like me at that age,” I tease.
“That’s why she drives me so damn nuts.” Blake groans again.
“Uh,” Andrea calls. “Guys?”
“The adults are still talkin’,” Blake mutters.
“Yeah, well, the grown-ups might want to get their grown-up asses over here and have a grown-up look at what I just found,” Andrea retorts.
“Language, darling,” I say mildly, if only because I’m trying to be the good uncle.
“Uncle Holt?” Andrea answers in the same mild tone.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the entire fuck up.”
Blake’s head comes up sharply. “Andrea!”
Libby bursts out laughing.
“I like her.” Standing, she tosses her head toward the kitchen area. “C’mon. Let’s see what she found.”
Together, we get up and gather around the table.
Andrea’s taken everything out of the box, including the foam padding nesting things in place.
Apparently, that includes the bottom, too.
Only, the bottom isn’t really the bottom.
It’s a wood panel over the real bottom, more than an inch of space, a hidden compartment. And inside, in the bottom of the box, there’s a thick stack of papers.
The ones on top look printed out, but there’s handwritten stuff on legal paper underneath.
What looks like old parchment paper, yellowed until it’s nearly brown and torn on one side.
Libby stands on her toes to peer in, then lifts the documents out, scanning the top ones before her face goes white.
“Holy hell,” she breathes. “Does this say what I think it does?”
“Let me see,” I ask, and she passes the top layer of stuff over to me.
They’re from some kind of…appraising service?
It looks like they do scientific analysis of minerals or something. There’s info detailing percentages of volcanic basalt rock, trace elements of potassium, sodium, magnesium, and chloride.
I’m smart, but I’m not Dr. Potter smart.
I don’t get it.
Until I read the signed notarized paragraph underneath the numbers.
It rocks me so hard I have to read it out loud, whispering the words in something of a hush.
“Dear Dr. Potter,” it says. “Thank you for entrusting the Seattle Institute of Minerology with such a valuable sample of your find. On analysis we can confirm with almost absolute certainty that this specimen dates to approximately 187 million years old. Its composition is analogous with that of Martian rock—specifically, the basaltic shergottite group. As you know, scarcely more than one hundred meteorites on Earth have been labeled successfully as Mars ejecta. Since most Martian meteorites have been discovered in northern Africa, south Asia, and the Middle East, discovering one in our own Pacific Northwest region makes this a fascinating find. Considering the composition of the terrain around your sample, it appears likely that this meteorite broke off from a larger object that disintegrated in the atmosphere during the Jurassic period of the Mesozoic era, and created the depression in the mountains where it was found on impact. I would love the opportunity to further study this Martian artifact, if you can ever find it in your heart to part with it.” By the time I get to the closing and the notary’s stamp, my mouth is so dry I can hardly talk. “Signed, Norman Danford, Ph.D. of Extraterrestrial Minerology.”
I’ll just sign it holy fuck.
Libby, Andrea, and I all stare at the little black box on the table with that porous red rock inside.
Blake’s the only one out of the loop, and he scratches his head, frowning. “What the hell’s that all about? Sounds like some sci-fi shit.”
“This,” Libby says breathlessly, picking up the black box with that innocuous-looking bit of rock inside. “This is the only thing that matches that description.”
“Wow,” Andrea whispers, staring at the rock with her eyes bugged out.
Libby starts to reach inside the box, then stops, shaking her head and pulling back like she’s afraid to touch it now.
“This thing can’t be that special, right? It’s just a big red rock. It can’t really be…”
“I mean, Mars itself is just big red rock,” I say. “It might be worth a few thousand bucks to the right buyer.”
“Maybe,” Libby says, and that’s when the tone in the room turns dark. “But if this is what my father shot a man for…is it even mine to sell?”
Andrea’s head snaps up sharply. “Your dad did what?”
“Ah, shit.” Blake groans, smacking his face into his palm.
Libby winces. “Oh! Crap. Sorry. I…I didn’t mean to mention that in front of the kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” Andrea grumbles. “Look, I’ve seen enough of the crap that happens in this town. A psycho almost gave me a bad case of frostbite, remember? I’m not gonna freak over a dead-ass body!”
“Violet!” Blake yells desperately, before I hold my hands up, clearing my throat.
“Could the clown car stop for a second and everybody just breathe?” I ask. “What we need to be thinking about is if this is the treasure Declan thinks he’s looking for.”