I suspect Emi secretly expected that I'd end up going to the police station one day. But I'm sure she always thought it'd be because I was too broke to pay for my rent, not because we finished a decades-old treasure hunt. The title "treasure hunt" might be generous, though, considering that we never actually got anything in the end. At best, we got a HIIT workout from too many near-death experiences. Isn't that what a HIIT workout is — doing exercises that make your heart race in between periods of rest?

Every time I think about it, my spirits sink a little lower. Three days after the treasure hunt, we're still broke. I'm still broke. Emi was right. This was a complete waste of time, time that I could've spent looking for a job or practicing my viola, which I would still have if it hadn't been stolen as collateral damage. The police didn't recover any stolen instruments when they apprehended the mobsters and searched their car.

Going into this, I knew there was a chance we wouldn't get anything. But now, I realize just how foolish I was. It was a risk, but I thought I had nothing to lose. How wrong I was. In this gamble, I lost everything and gained nothing. If the pendulum of luck had swung a little further from us, we could've lost our lives, too.

That might be the reason why Emi and I more than willingly agreed to drive to the police station. For one thing, we're both still too scared to sleep in our apartments, so there aren't many options of places to go during the day. My hopes have shrunk to almost nothing when it comes to getting the alleged treasure, but something inside me thinks there's still a chance that our efforts won't be in vain.

No. That's just wishful thinking. That's the logical part of my brain trying to justify all this time wasted with no payout.

Emi strides ahead of me, past the few police cars parked outside the station. Automatic doors slide open for her, not wanting to block her mission to the lobby. She's barely spoken to me since the cave. She doesn't need to. Anger, maybe a hint of betrayal as well, radiates off her, more intense than any time she's practiced the Mahler Five violin part.

I catch up to her inside, standing beside her as she speaks with the desk sergeant.

"Officer Robles will speak with you shortly. Please take a seat."

I take a seat on one of the stiff chairs. The upholstery is made of a green tweed that scratches the back of my thighs, exposed by the cut-off shorts I'm wearing. Sadness rushes through me thinking of houndstooth pants I just bought. I'm going to sell them now, though it probably won't cover the debt I incurred in buying them. I scoot to the seat's edge so it no longer touches my bare skin, taking a straight-spined orchestral posture.

Emi stands across the room, flicking her finger across her phone screen. Whether she's reading emails or playing subway surfers, we'll never know. I'd bet money on the former.

A door opens several minutes later. The dark-haired female officer from the cave stands behind it, a file in her hand.

"Cerise Lenoir and Emi Sung?"

We follow her to an open room lined with empty cubicles. I can't imagine how confining it'd feel if they were all occupied.

"Take a seat." The officer motions to two wooden chairs pulled up beside one station. She does the same in a large rolling chair. I return to my rigid posture, and I notice Emi sits the same way. Old habits stay habits.

"Thank you so much for helping in this matter," Emi says. "We, er, I really appreciate it."

"All in a line of duty." Officer Robles doesn't spare a glance our way as her fingers fly over the computer keys. The rapid tapping reaches a ceasefire after a few seconds, and she peers at us over a thin pair of rectangular glasses. "Actually, we'd like to thank you. If it weren't for your treasure hunt, we wouldn't have uncovered an organized crime operation spanning the past few decades in Dewhurst." She looks up from her computer screen. "Looks like you were right when you came and reported the break in and shooting outside your apartment."

Emi nods politely, though I'm sure she's thinking the same thing I am: um, yeah, of course we were right. Why the heck didn't you investigate when we first came to you?

"Well, I'm happy you caught them," Emi says. A slight crease wrinkles her brow. "You did catch them all, right?"

"We're working on it," the officer says. "But we think mostly, yes."

I shift in my seat, nerves prickling the back of my neck. "I mean, we wouldn't want their relatives to get revenge on us for getting them caught."

The woman gives a slight nod. "I'm sorry, I can't give much information while the investigation is ongoing."

"But this is our lives at stake. Quite frankly, I'm scared to go back to our apartment. And we can't afford to stay in a different hotel every night."

"Right." The woman nods thoughtfully. "And it's better to not use credit cards for the time being."

"'Cause that's how they can track us down," I say.

"Exactly." Officer Robles stands. "Hold on a second." She leaves the room. Emi and I wait for her return with bated breath. A couple minutes later, she returns. Once she's seated again, she says, "alright, I suppose I can give you a few details."

Though already at the edge of my seat, my back straightens a little more, shifting my spine into perfect alignment.

"We managed to get one of the mobsters to talk. He gave us the location of their base. From there, we got a search warrant for the building and their computer servers. That provided a list of all the people involved in their organization. And let me tell you, it is quite the list. There's at least a hundred people affiliated with them."

My jaw drops. "A hundred mobsters?"

"They're not all mobsters. Actually, they're part of a smuggling ring. They work with thieves that steal valuable musical instruments, then sell them to mobsters. Then, the mobsters hold auctions and sell the instruments to the highest bidder. They work with smuggling crews that load up the instruments and transfer them to the buyers. So in the actual Dewshurst crime ring, or the Silvering, as they refer to themselves, there are only about twenty to thirty members, most of whom we've rounded up."

"Just twenty to thirty?" I ask. Officer Robles nods. My mind flashes back to the party Emi and I attended, the one the mobsters hired us for as a ploy to get us out of our apartment. It seemed more like a hundred people there rather than thirty.

"How... how did they manage all these money transfers without anyone noticing?" Emi asks.

"They were pretty brilliant, actually," Officer Robles says. "They set up a classical music foundation. Then, they would report spending money on things like music lessons and supplies for kids. These kids were actually the children of the thieves. So the money was going to the thieves, not the kids. And whenever a buyer was paying them for the musical instruments, they would donate large sums of money to the foundation. Of course, they also took out a 'personal salary' from the 'donated funds,' and also paid for transportation costs for the kids' instruments and supplies, which actually went to the transportation companies they worked alongside."

Several beats of silence permeate the air. My brain spins from all the information she dumped on us.

"That's... kind of insane," I say at last.

"What does that mean for us?" Emi asks.

"In terms of going back to your apartment? You should be okay to return. It will probably take several months to round everyone up, but it seems that you're only known to the Silvering, not people outside of it. If you're concerned, we can have some officers keep an eye on your apartment until things settle out."

"That would be very much appreciated," Emi says in a rushed exhale.

"Alright, we'll work on that."

"Um... do you think we're going to have to testify in court? One of the officers said something about that," Emi asks cautiously.

"We're not sure yet," Officer Robles says. "If the evidence is a slam dunk, which is how it's looking right now, we may deem it better that you both stay as detached from the case as possible, just in case."

"In case of what?" I ask.

"Well, in case your names are leaked somehow. Wouldn't want you to have any enemies."

It's a little too late for that.

"Is there a chance our names have already been leaked?" I ask.

"We're still looking into that," Officer Robles says. "But it's unlikely thus far. We can see all the communication sent between the Silvering and their associates, and there's nothing mentioning you two so far. It seems to us that your discovery of their operations was an internal matter they wanted to handle themselves. After all, it may discredit them and disperse associates if they knew the operation was compromised."

Her words help ease the worried knot in my stomach a tiny bit.

"What about the instruments we found in the cave?" Emi asks.

"We managed to get a couple of experts to the scene. They'll investigate the instruments over the next few weeks. But I got a call this morning with their earliest findings. So far, more than half of the instruments they've looked into are reported as stolen. More than likely, the others are stolen, too, just unreported. I doubt Silverenn stumbled upon nine free Stradivarius instruments, and it's even less likely that she paid for them."

"Are they in as bad shape as they seemed?" Emi asks.

This question has been haunting me as well. Up to this point, Silverenn's unlawful acts were intangible, things that mattered in the past but had no direct affect on me. But to ruin twenty-one top quality instruments for no reason is a crime against history and fine art.

"I think one of the luthiers suspected there was hope for restoration," Officer Robles says. "I mean, aren't there many cases where a Stradivarius is stored in an attic or basement for decades before being discovered?"

"Yes, but it was in a cave." Emi shivers, as if reliving yesterday's nightmare.

"Actually, the box they were in was climate controlled. They were kept at the optimal conditions for storage."

"Huh," I chuckle. "Didn't know they had such devices back then."

Officer Robles peers at me over her brown-framed glasses. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when do you think this whole game was concocted?" I ask.

"Eighties would be my best guess. Though more evidence may suggest otherwise. Time will tell." Officer Robles looks us dead in the eye. "Look, I'm going to be frank with you two. Since these instruments were stolen, you probably won't get any money out of your treasure hunt."

I stiffen. My muscles remain uncannily still. But inside, panic and despair are crashing around. That's the very thing I didn't want to hear; it's the last thing I want Emi to hear. It's over, all over. And we have truly gained nothing, not one penny.

Treasure or tragedy — one lies in wait.

Now I know for certain which is our fate. No money, no prize, just a waste of time.

"But we do have some good news," Officer Robles says.

Thank goodness. We could use some of that right about now.

"We seem to have located your instruments, the ones the mobsters stole from you both. I can get them for you right now, actually. Once you identify them, they're yours."

Emi inhales, nodding. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome." Officer Robles stands. "If we need you anymore, I'll give you a call."

With instruments in tow, it's a quiet walk back to the car. The sun is too bright in my eyes, too hot on my skin. It ought to be cloudy, blue-gray. Additional heat from the seats in Emi's car causes sweat to bead on my arms and legs.

"So there you have it," Emi says, buckling into the driver seat. "Two weeks of our lives down the drain. We may have our instruments back, but that's about it."

"We provided a valuable service to the community," I counter. "I'm surprised they didn't pay us for helping out."

Emi shakes her head. "They're too smart to give you money." The engine roars in agreement, and Emi turns around to back out of the driving space. "So back to the same-old. More audition hunting." Her voice carries a hint of sadness. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was just as naive as me in thinking there was a chance at treasure. But I'm on thin enough ice as is, so I don't point it out.

"You know, Cerise," Emi continues. "I thought there was hope for us. I thought there was a chance we could make a decent living one day if we just kept trying. Sure, classical music is out of style. But the big orchestras still need people, and there will always be weddings and other small events. For now, there are still kids to teach the dying art to." She inhales a shaky breath. "But I'm not so sure any more."

"I wouldn't give up just yet," I say, shifting in my seat.

"I'm not giving up on music," Emi says. "But our trio, it's just not happening. Our first call in months is someone trying to get us out of our apartment. I thought things were looking up, even this morning. But it was only mobsters trying to get us out of the house."

My heart beats in her pause. Three, four, five. I don't know why my throat tightens, why I have to force the words out and hold tears in.

"You think it's time to split?" I say.

"Maybe." Emi's eyes leave the road for an instant to look at me. "You know we'll have to tell Martin."

"About..."

"That it wasn't a true gig. You know what that means?"

I inhale a breath. "He'll be crushed." Somehow, I think he was even more excited about the job than Emi and me. Martin lives, breathes, and bleeds music.

What do I live and breathe? Shopping? I snort, and Emi glares in my direction.

"Seriously?" she says. "What could possibly be funny?"

"My life. It's such a joke." Emi rolls her eyes in response.

I wanted things to change. I wanted to live and breathe music again. But Emi's right. This music career isn't working out. Besides, what if someone affiliated with the Silvering tracks us down to get revenge? We can't entangle Martin in our lives any more, just in case he becomes a target, too. Maybe it's better if Emi and I go our separate ways, leave town and try not to attract attention to ourselves.

There goes advertising our musical skills to get gigs.

The silence during our ride breaks when we pull into the apartment parking lot. Men, women, and huge, rolling cameras litter the grass outside the dilapidated building we call home. Many hold boxy mics, the kind you see on TV.

"Huh," Emi grunts. "Figures there'd be a robbery here one day."

Actually, there already was an attempted robbery — the police reminded us of that today.

As I step from the car, a woman dressed in a red pantsuit rushes to me. She shoves a green mic-in-the-box in my face.

"You're Cerise Lenoir," she states rather than asks.

"Uh, sure."

"Tell us, what did you think when you saw all those instruments?"

"Huh?"

"Were you scared when you were held at gunpoint?"

More reporters run to me, shouting questions that only get jumbled and tossed around in my mind. I crane my neck to the other side of the car. A dozen of these people have accosted Emi as well. And then it clicks: the reporters want to talk to us.

"Cerise," someone shouts. "How does it feel to be a modern-day treasure hunter?"