They say I’m worth millions. Just weigh me and you’ll know. You’ll find me by shiny shoes and acorns, underneath the universe, where everything is faster or slower, depending on how you look at it. When you find me, capture the moment with me and your team. Then be sure to add to your collection with all of the above.

Noah stares at me slack-jawed. “What the Derek Jeter is this?”

I’m dumbstruck. I’ve been riddling my way through the words for five minutes, but I’m back at square one and it’s empty. I should know it. But I’m struggling. My decoder ring isn’t working well, and maybe it’s because RaeLynn’s words are ringing in my head, the echo of them occupying all the space that I ought to be devoting to this clue.

Ginny yawns. “Sorry, guys. I’m a bit off my game. Had a late night with my daughter.”

“Is everything okay with her?” Noah asks.

Ginny smiles. “She’s great. But she possesses a common trait among ten-year-olds. She forgot to tell me we had to make cupcakes for a school project until the very last minute. We were up late baking.”

Noah stares at her, perplexed. “Why not just go out and buy the cupcakes?”

Ginny recoils. “I’d be shunned.”

“For real?”

Ginny nods. “It’s completely verboten. You can’t bring in store-bought cupcakes when the class is asked to bake.”

“Next time, ask me.”

She stares at him incredulously, as if he’s begun walking on his hands. “Why?”

“Because I’ll help you bake. You can call me anytime.”

“But . . . you’re twenty-five,” she sputters, like that’s the natural response to learning someone has baking acumen, when it’s actually the first thing on her mind with him—the age difference.

And he knows now. A sly smile spreads on his face. “I get you, Ginny.”

“What do you get?”

“You think I’m too young for you. I’ll have you know I’m a mature twenty-five, and I can bake my ass off.”

“And I’m an old thirty-five.”

“Doesn’t bother me. I don’t even think about it. You shouldn’t either.”

“I shouldn't think about how young you are?”

“Only to think about how much energy my youth gives me in many areas.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so so.”

And I think he might be wearing her down, erasing her worries about age.

Wait. Old. Young. This hunt . . . that’s what it’s about.

“The past,” I whisper to Leo.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what this hunt is about. The tomb, right? And all the other items in the museum yesterday. Obviously, they’re items from the past. What if the twist to the hunt is learning from the past? Discovering teamwork or something from the past.”

Leo’s smile lights up. “That might be it. You could be onto something.”

He steps away, paces, furrows his brow. He spins around, heads toward us, muttering under his breath. He’s like a detective assembling clues, and it’s hella hot.

He passes us again, and as he wears a hole in the concrete, I, too, try to work the problem.

“Maybe it’s a famous hotel,” Noah offers.

“Or a landmark building,” Ginny puts in.

“Maybe it’s all of them,” I say.

“All of them?” Noah asks.

“Something that combines them.” Leo snaps his fingers. “I think I know what it might be. The weigh me part is the key.” He glances around, making sure the other teams aren’t nearby, then pulls us in close and whispers.

I gasp, and I want to smack a big one on his lips because he’s so damn clever.

Except I can’t do that.

Or really, I shouldn’t do that.

RaeLynn’s last words underline my every thought.

You can’t be too careful these days.

That needs to be my mantra, and I vow to follow it as we rush out of the park, Noah debating the fastest way to Midtown.

When Noah finally settles on a flying carpet—or a cab, if no flying carpet is available—Leo stops in his tracks.

He stares at the ground by the arch. A pink backpack with a rainbow sits forlornly on the concrete. The top is unzipped slightly, revealing purple and pink spiral-bound notebooks and a Pusheen the cat pencil holder. “Guys. Did some kid lose her backpack?”

“I don’t know.” I bend and take a look at the tag. “Property of Isabelle Grayson.” It lists an address a few blocks away.

I look around for any grade-schoolers, but the park is mostly empty of school-age kids, since it’s nine thirty. Nor do I spot any young kids searching for a pink bag.

“We should return this,” Leo says firmly.

“We should,” I say, seconding him. “Doesn’t matter if it puts us behind.”

Noah groans.

There’s a time limit on the scavenger hunt. We have two hours to complete the challenge and send in the photo proof. The team that’s fastest and most creative wins the points.