I always like looking at modern architecture. It's so effortlessly stylish, like the women that shop in Sephora and Nordstrom. That's what I expected when we pulled up to the Solar Lacquer Art Gallery, a bright building with angular sides and plenty of glass windows.

Instead, the museum looks like the remains of a giant, crumbling mansion, situated amidst shops in similar states of decay in downtown Cabbage Edge. The mid-morning sunlight does little to brighten the dull, off-white exterior.

"You'd think some of the artists might chip in and help restore this place," I mumble.

"They probably don't care," Emi says. She parks in one of the three empty parking spaces allotted to the museum along the two-lane road. "After all, I'm sure many of them have been dead for a long time."

"The building is rundown enough to bring back Picasso," I say. "He wouldn't want his prized handiwork to live in a dump."

"It isn't a dump. This place has historical intrigue. I was reading about it last night."

"Turn it into a tourist attraction then." I turn around, glancing at the vacant parking spots behind us. The place doesn't draw much attention.

"What else do you think an art museum is? Personally, I think it's a smart use of space."

Her car door opens, ending the conversation. I jog up several levels of cracking steps, passing by pillars that look like they'll crumble under the weight of a stone awning stretching overhead, to reach a rounded, wooden door. Emi locks the car, tucking her keys into the pockets on her linen, cornflower blue pants, and trails behind.

With every step, I'm grateful that I purchased a pair of sneakers, as well as the golden, houndstooth pants that match the laces. The clothes Emi and I are wearing were just too cute to pass up. Besides, we couldn't wear the same clothes every day. That'd be weird.

At the door, entry costs twenty-five dollars per person. It's a steep price, yet Silverenn's treasure is probably worth far more. Probably. Every so often, I must remind myself that it really will be worth it, that it's not some prank orchestrated by a mob boss.

After we pass through a metal detector and Emi shows that the only metal that set off the alarm was her keys and phone, we enter a large, circular foyer. Corinthian columns rise every few feet around the rooms circumference, connecting to the golden, arched ceiling. Two women sit at the information desk in the center, one on the phone, the other scrolling through her computer. A security guard stands at the opening of a hallway, and beyond, a tour guide discusses the significance of a sculpture composed of metal scraps.

Aside from the staff, few people seem to be visiting the museum. Behind us, a woman in a short, gray dress enters the museum, wearing a matching, gray blazer overtop. Her heels clack on the floor as she crosses the room to look at the architecture.

"What should we do first?" Emi whispers.

I shrug, then approach the front desk. "Hello, would an artwork called 'On Route to the Bay' be here?"

The woman looks up from her computer and smiles. "Hi, I'm actually new here so I'm not totally sure. Let me check for you. You said the name was..."

"On Route to the Bay," Emi repeats.

The woman's fingers reach and stretch for keys in rapid succession, then pause, scrolling through results. She frowns at the screen. "I'm sorry, but I'm not seeing anything with that title. Do you know what type of artwork it is, or what period it was created?"

"No."

"That's unfortunate. Aside from special art exhibitions, which arrive here every few months, all of the works are organized based on their type."

"Would you mind telling where each hall leads?"

"Not at all." The woman fires off a bunch of terminology I'm unfamiliar with, aside from sculpture, mural, and paintings. I think those are the important ones, though. When she finishes, Emi smiles and thanks her.

"Did you understand what she said?" I whisper.

"Yeah. The 2D stuff is on the left, 3D on the right."

"That's it?"

Emi's hand latches onto my elbow. "Let's head for the paintings first."

Not the best idea. An eternity passes while reading the title of each painting, though we might've shaved off some time if Emi hadn't gotten so absorbed in them.

"I haven't been to an art museum in years," she kept repeating.

I've officially decided that Emi doesn't leave the house enough. She's too absorbed in her music. I'll have to fix that once we find the treasure. No matter what, she will relax and enjoy herself. In excess, even medicine can become poisonous, and that includes practicing.

We finally cross over to the 3D section, while the three people on tour in that section switch to the 2D artworks. Surprise ripples through me when I glance at my phone and realize we only spent about fifteen minutes in the other section.

Statues and reliefs on display stands decorate the hall, which curves into a circular room. In the center, a gray-stone man stands with his hands on a canoe. It looks like real wood until I step closer and realize it's scored rock. The man is equally detailed. Beads of sweat trickle across protruding blood vessels in his temples. By his feet, a plaque reads En Route to the Bay.

"No wonder we couldn't find it," Emi says. "It's 'En Route to the Bay,' not 'On Route.'"

"Don't blame me. It sounded like 'on' over the phone," I say.

Additional quips are cut short as we inspect the mesmerizing scene before us. The man stands on articulated blades of grass. The earth transitions to granules, then waves licking the boat. I can't imagine how much time went into each scrape and crevice. It's no wonder that it's the room's central attraction. I don't understand how the worker didn't know about it, though.

"1972." Emi points her finger at the date I'm already looking at.

"I know. Do you think Silverenn knew the artist? Or perhaps the man who's being depicted?"

Emi squints at the plaque. "Huh, that's odd. There isn't any extra information given about the sculpture. I'll find out more about Jenivive S. Sweet." She pulls out her phone.

While she starts her research, I circle the sculpture. The whole zips up and down unstuck. See it while the eyes are struck.

I stop behind the masterpiece, stumped. I need to view it with fresh eyes, a new perspective. Somehow, the clue and this sculpture are related to the whole tone scale. Once again, my eyes trace the etches. And then I see it, so subtle, I wonder if any have spotted it before. Near the bottom of the boat, there are two fish, complete with a gradient of dark blue and greenish scales. One dives under the boat; the other one dives toward me. Together, their bodies form the smallest circle in front of a wave.

Not a circle, a hole.

The whole zips up and down unstuck?

I shake my head to clear it. It's too confusing, too much of a brain twister. But I think I know what I need to do, and that's what matters. I glance around, then lean forward. My finger eases between the smooth stones until they brush a thin cylinder. I wriggle a rolled sheet of paper from the crevice. Age has painted it yellow and splotched it with dark brown.

Emi always chastises me for spending too much. But what she doesn't realize is that everything I buy has a purpose. Just the other day, I resisted buying a chic, black-leather coat that would've gone perfectly with the black shirt, pants, and lace-up heels I'm wearing. More importantly, it could've hidden this scroll. So I do the only thing I can think of: I roll the scroll tighter, until its thickness resembles a pen's, pull back the elastic that grips my wrist, and slip the paper into my puffy long sleeves. Though impractical for the warming weather, I wouldn't want to wear any other shirt.

I straighten, gaze falling on Emi across from me. She raises her hands in a defeated shrug, then lets them drop to her side.

"There isn't even a wikipedia page on Jenivive," she says.

A smile tugs at my lips, and I make my way around the artwork to stand beside her.

"What?" Emi asks. "Did you find something?"

I'm about to reply when movement catches in the corner of my eye. For an instant, brown hair swishes from behind the neighboring wall. And then it's gone.

There are only three explanations. First, someone is traveling into that room to see the art. But we would've seen the person pass by if that were the case. Second, it could be someone moving from that room to this room. But why did the person decide to stay in the other room?

The third is most plausible. It's also the most dangerous. What has my life become?

My thoughts come in a rush. I should've been more careful when removing the scroll. There are probably video cameras trained on me. We shouldn't have mentioned Silverenn out loud. Someone could have heard us.

It doesn't matter what we did, though. It matters what we do right now. So I approach Emi, mimicking her forlorn expression.

"I didn't either. Let's get out here."

Emi squints at me. She knows me too well; she knows I wouldn't give up so easily. Too bad she can't know what I'm thinking as well.

"Cerise?" There's almost a warning in her tone, the same voice my mother pulled when she thought I was hiding something.

"Nothing," I say. "Come on. I'm sick of looking at inanimate objects." I take her elbow, leaning close enough to whisper in her ear. "I think we're being watched."

Emi stiffens instantly. I tug her into motion, and we walk through the hall, past figures that reach toward us or watch us with unblinking eyes. The scroll is awkward in my sleeve. It may be thin, but it's longer than my elbow, jutting out of the scratchy material at an angle if my arm is bent. I hold my arm straight at my side to hide it.

The paisley-swirled carpet ends, and our feet now clink on tile. Our strides synchronize to a marching beat. One, two. One, two.

Click.

I pause on instinct. An echo floats through the bright, white corridor, then silence. I wait, heart hammering in my throat, but no further sound comes. My eyes drift over my shoulder to the series of rooms behind us, separated by only an intricate, white border framing the doorway. I scan everything, yet only artwork is behind.

We resume walking. Sure enough, the third footstep continues as well, chiming in at odds with the soft, squeaky tread of our sneakers.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Emi and I look at each other, then we hurry our pace.

One, two. One, two.

It'd be presto on a metronome. The following footsteps create a syncopated rhythm with ours, a cacophony that crescendos as our pursuer matches our speed. I don't even care about the racket. The noise doesn't matter... as long as whoever's behind doesn't catch up.

Pillars rise in the distance, just beyond the arched doorway ahead. I glance over my shoulder again, this time glimpsing someone in gray, another swish of brown hair. Emi and I practically run from the room, slipping behind a pillar and a faded mural framing the door. I feel slightly panini-like — compressed and overheated due to poor AC and polyester long sleeves.

Echos emanate through the museum, but the clicking has stopped. I can't turn my head to look at Emi fully, but from the corner of my eye, her expression is puzzled.

The security guard in the foyer ambles over, surveying the room. My heart beats its way up into my throat and remains there, anxiety tingling in my fingers.

Where did the woman go? Was she not actually following us?

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The steps resume, growing louder with my heart beat.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I inhale a breath. The person is so close, nearly in the open. Anticipation and apprehension mingle within me so I can't tell which one makes my shoulders tremble. The sooner we find out who's after us, the sooner we can gain the upper hand. It's harder to fight an unknown enemy.

The only complication is that I could be spotted in my awkward hiding place. Anxiety trickles through me, the tingles intensifying, and I blink furiously until a woman in a gray dress and blazer, the same woman we saw earlier, passes. A strand of copper brown hair hangs in her face, too short to be slicked back in her low ponytail. She makes no motion to adjust it, just pauses by the 3D wing's exit.

The woman ducks her head back in the 3D art hall, disappearing for a few moments. Then, I see her stand in the doorway, her gaze slowly scraping every inch of the foyer. When it reaches our hiding spot, I close my eyes on instinct, ducking my head further back behind the pillar, where part of its winged design stretches before my face. I vibrate with energy, and it's only the two surfaces that hold me together, keep me from exploding.

Don't spot us. Don't spot us.

Please.

Finally, finally, there's a: click, click, click, click.

One eye cracks open. The woman has passed.

"Is she gone?" Emi whispers.

"Yes." My brow creases. "Wait, how did you know? Can you see?"

"I'm going by the sound of her shoes."

"Oh." I glance around. The security guard has his back to us, briefly facing the opposite wall. I slip from behind the pillar, Emi behind me, just as he turns. He smiles slightly before turning his gaze elsewhere, continuing its sweep over the room.

"Let's get out of here," Emi whispers. We stroll toward the door, smiling nervously at the museum attendants at the front desk and the door. By the front entrance, two glass panels run from floor to ceiling, giving us a peek at the outside.

I freeze in my tracks. The woman in the gray blazer and ponytail stands on the front steps beside a man in a brown suit, both facing our car. She holds a phone to her ear, but I'm not convinced that she's making a mere phone call. I think they're actually waiting for us.

Emi stumbles, shooting me a glare.

"Are you alright?" The woman at the door glances between us, concern etched in her furrowed brow.

"Yeah," I say. "I just... need to use the restroom."

I drag Emi to the nearest bathroom. Once away from the open entrance, I whisper, "they're waiting for us outside."

Emi's face crumples. Tears bloom in her eyes. "How are we going to get out of here?"

"I don't know." I step a few paces away from her, then walk back.

"Even if there were another exit, they'd still see us entering our car," Emi says. She blinks, and two tears trickle down her cheeks. "It's like we need an escort or something so they can't do anything."

An idea clicks into place. "Wait a minute! Maybe we can use an escort." My plan expands, taking full shape. "Emi, you're a genius!"