Emi and I exit the bathroom. The security guard stands on the opposite side of the foyer between two towering columns. We approach quickly, a light squishing sound underfoot as our shoes tread on tile.

"Hi," I say, "I know this is a lot to ask, but my friend here just broke up with her boyfriend, and he's been really threatening toward her. We're concerned he might even be waiting to attack her outside."

Emi nods along with real tears staining her cheeks.

Concern washes over the security guard's face. "He might be here now?" We nod. "This sounds serious. Have you contacted the police?"

"We're headed over there right now," I say. "We just don't want anything to happen to us when we're walking to our car."

"He might hurt you too?" he asks, even more startled.

"Since I'm friends with his former girlfriend," I say, hoping he buys the explanation. "Would you mind stepping outside with us, just to make sure we make it to our car safely?"

"Not at all." His brow still knit with concern, he follows us outside.

Warmth and sunlight hits my face the moment we exit. The woman and man on the sidewalk turn around, gazes falling on the security guard. Perhaps it's my imagination, but the man's lips appear to tighten slightly. His hands are buried in his pants pockets, and the woman still holds the phone to her ear.

"Do you see him?" the security guard asks, looking up and down the sidewalk.

"No," I say, while Emi slips into the driver seat. "Thanks so much!"

"No problem," the guard replies. "Happy to help."

I slip into the passenger seat while he ducks back inside the museum. The moment the doors close out front, the man draws his hands from his pocket and starts running for the car. Fear flashes through me. He has a gun trained on us.

"Stop!" he commands, though his shout is muffled by the closed windows.

"Emi, drive!" I exclaim.

She puts the car into gear, and we jolt backward in the parallel parking place, then forward as Emi slams her foot on the gas. There's a pop, then glass shatters in the backseat.

We zoom down the street, and thank goodness the traffic light ahead is green. I glance in the side mirror, only to spot a silvery-white sedan trailing behind.

"Emi, speed up a bit," I say.

The engine revs as Emi pushes forty-five. The distance between the silvery car widens slightly, then closes once more. I inhale a breath. When will this end?

I might not know the answer to that question, but I think I know what lies in the end — at least, I hope I know.

Treasure.

We come to an abrupt stop.

"What are you doing? Keep going!" I exclaim. I face the front, then realize why we've stopped.

"You want me to go through a red light?" Emi says.

"No..." I glance behind me. Somehow, another car has cut in, separating us from our pursuers. "It's just that we're being followed."

"I can't believe this. It's like we've been thrust into a spy movie."

"Just try to lose them. Take a few random turns through the city, then they might get lost."

"We'll be lost, too."

"Better than leading them to the hotel."

Green flashes overhead, and Emi takes a left. A darker street carves its way between old, towering brick buildings, casting shadows over the downtown. Emi jerks the wheel to the right, and my shoulder smacks the door. Pain thrums through my arm for a moment before disappearing. I grip the side compartment on the door. Emi accelerates, the car vibrating underneath me. The light at the end of the street grows brighter, and we zoom into the street as an SUV barrels down the other lane.

It's coming straight for us, straight for Emi's door. A horn blasts, I blink, and we're on the other side of the road, heading for a light. It turns yellow, but Emi slams her foot on the gas. My grip tightens on the door.

"Are they still following us?" Emi asks.

I glance behind. The silvery-white monster still chases us. "Yes. And they're gaining."

"Shoot."

Another traffic light looms ahead. A green arrow appears, and Emi screeches into the left lane, braking as we turn. The car's momentum has us soaring through the light, nearly smacking into the car ambling in front of us.

"Come on! They aren't even going the speed limit," Emi shouts.

No cars drive in the opposing lane, so Emi drives around the slowpoke. I glance behind. The silvery car's window is rolled down now, and a black, metal object sticks outside, pointed at us. It takes a moment to process what I'm seeing, for the initial shock to wear off.

"This can't be real," I mutter.

"Of course this is real!" Emi says. "It's because those darn scores are real. And it doesn't help that you have a real problem with shopaholism."

"Hate to say this, but things got worse. They have a gun."

"What?"

"A gun. They are pointing a gun at us."

A jingle plays through the car, and my seat vibrates. I look at my phone, perched between my leg and the seat.

"I'm almost afraid to answer," I say.

"Who is it?"

I forgot about the former phone call, about the fact that they have my number, whoever they are. But I feel compelled to pick up for some reason. I suppose I should work on that. I often am compelled to follow through on bad ideas. Then again, one of my bad ideas might bring me treasure.

I swipe across the screen and bring the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, Cerise."

"What do you want?" I ask. Emi swerves to avoid hitting a pedestrian on the crosswalk.

"I think you already know."

"It's best to make things clear to avoid misunderstandings. That'd be awkward for both of us."

"Fair point," the voice chuckles. "We want what's rightfully ours: the Silverenn Songs."

"Rightfully? Are you related to her?"

Another deep chuckle rumbles over the line. "I'm not sure if you're in a position to make demands."

"I'm not demanding, just curious. It's nice to put a face to the voice."

"You can see our faces right now if you pull over and turn in what you found."

"But we didn't find anything."

"Don't be ridiculous. There's a reason you're running from us."

"It's the principle of tag. What we do in our childhoods often affects our adult mentality."

The speaker laughs again. At least our pursuer has a sense of humor. I think that's a good thing... hopefully.

"We'll give you five minutes to pull over. And if not, well, let's just say you'll feel rather flat. In fact, we'll trade you."

The line goes dead.

"They want us to pull over," I say.

"Seems like a mighty good idea right now." Sweat beads on Emi's brow as she makes another sudden turn.

"No, it doesn't, especially if they are who I think they are."

Emi quirks an eyebrow. "And that is...?"

"Silverenn's descendants, the mob."

We bank to the right. Emi's still going strong, though my breakfast sandwich climbs up my throat.

"The mob is after us?" She seems on the verge of a panic attack. "The mob?"

We cut through a parking lot, whizzing by rows and rows of parked cars. Silver chrome is on our heels, weaving toward us. Then, Emi takes another turn, and we find ourselves on the main road, outside the downtown area. She darts into the slew of three-lane traffic. For the last time, Emi steps on the gas, and we get lost in the sea of cars. Sighs of relief fill the car, and I feel myself deflate.

"That... was close."

"Whatever you found had better be worth it," Emi says. Her arms are still taut, hands still gripping the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles are white.

I pull the scroll from my sleeve, like an illusionist supplying a bunny. The yellowed page springs back from its tight coil. Lines trace across the page in an imperfect circle. On the right side of the page, there's a musical note.

"It's a map," I say. "I think the musical note marks where the treasure is." I flip it over, then back to the front. "I just don't know what the map leads to. No location is listed."

"So we're just supposed to guess where we're going? That's insane."

"We still have one more clue waiting for us at the hotel," I say. "I'll bet the answer lies there."

My eyes drift back down to my phone. My eyebrows draw together as I spot a new message stating:

Sent an image

Curious, I click on the message thread. Two images pop up in the chat. The first displays a slender violin, lying inside an open case. Beside it is a marked-up score of a trio by Mozart, the scribbles in Emi's handwriting.

The other image displays an instrument with a more rounded base, a viola, sitting in a case. A name tag hangs over the top, displaying the name "Cerise Lenoir."

My heart seems to stop in my chest. I feel numb to everything except the panic rising in the corners of my mind, reaching its icy tendrils into my veins. I can't move, can't speak, can barely think.

That's my instrument. The mobsters somehow broke into our hotel room and got a hold of our instruments. Anger, fear, frustration, all the emotions seem to rile up inside me, crashing through in a tidal wave. They have all our stuff, including our most valuable possessions.

I flashback to the first time I held the instrument in my hands, at a small instrument shop back in Indiana. It was the nicest instrument my parents could afford when I was going to college. They saved up four-thousand dollars for it.

That viola, my viola, has been with me through thick and thin for nearly ten years.

And now, it's gone. Taken. Stolen.

By Silverenn's descendants.

No, by Silverenn herself. If not for her stupid treasure hunt, I'd still have my viola, four-thousand dollars worth of singing wood — not to mention the seven-hundred dollar bow.

"Emi, when you get a chance, can you pull over?" I swallow, my throat dry. "We need to talk."