It was unusual to find a notepad these days, and even more unusual to find a notepad actually in use. Pen and paper were simple relics from a distant stone age; the digital world reigned supreme. But as I scanned Mac Kiplinger’s apartment for clues to her disappearance, I noticed more and more artifacts frozen in time. Up on the 207th floor, intense sunlight illuminated a space encumbered with useless items. Perhaps she’s a collector. Stacks of notepads stood like marble columns, rolls of newspapers arranged like firewood, and barrels of fountain pens overflowed around the floor-to-ceiling shelves. “Who is this person?” Riley asked, expressing my exact thoughts, but that is to be expected after 23 years of partnership. “D’you think hoarder or time traveler?” A faint laugh heaved from my chest, “honestly it could go either way-“ But then I saw it on the desk, a lone notebook haphazardly opened and strewn, like there was no time to put it back where it belonged, or perhaps someone didn’t know where it belonged. Everything else in the room, despite its irrelevance to society, was organized so thoughtfully, so purposefully. My head turned at an angle. I approached it slowly, activating my barrier gloves to examine. If I held the paper up to the light, I could see the faint outline a map, the imprint left behind from the previous page of the notepad. I guess she wasn’t a collector after all. “Riley, I think we’ve got ourselves a treasure hunter,” I announced. “No way, you can’t possibly mean this is another Lost Artifact hunter gone missing. Kiplinger would be the fourth one this year! The city councilor is not going to happy about this,” Riley fretted, “this wild, conspiracy goose chase is getting out of control!” He sulked off to the window with hands on his head, probably hoping to get kidnapped himself rather than deal with Lost Artifacters. I grabbed a newspaper, set on testing a theory, and rubbed it over the notepad quickly. “What are you doing, Jax?” “And the Lord said “‘Let there be light!’,” I exclaimed, impressed with myself, as I revealed the map with a simple Ink transfer. Who said these items are useless? “Yeah, uh, I don’t think that’s how the phrase works,” Riley scoffed through furrowed brow. Ignoring him, I examined the map before me to see a grid-like pattern. Each turn spaced fairly evenly apart, much like the map of a city, but that would be too obvious. Lost Artifacters seek the road less traveled, so they say, and a city route would be too obvious. Beneath the grid I saw instructions: READ BETWEEN THE LINES. “Hey, Riley, what d’you make of this-“ Before he could get a look, a woman barged into the apartment door. Her gray hair and dark metallic outfit gave her the appearance of a snake. “-Excuse me gentlemen,” Snake-eyes announced, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” “Sorry ma’am, this is an active case and potential crime scene. I’m actually going to have to ask you to leave,” Riley insisted. I slid the map into my pocket. Something didn’t sit right about her. If it looks like a snake, slithers like a snake, bites like a snake, then it’s probably a snake. “I’m the Kiplinger’s family attorney,” she smirked, “they are no longer seeking their daughter and kindly thank you for you service. Please be on your way.” She stepped aside, leaving the doorway open for them. Riley jumped first, “I’m sorry, Miss - what did you say your name was -“ “Amelia Kiplinger. Mac is my sister.” “Excellent,” I exclaimed, “you can tell us a little about her then. She must have been a collector of sorts, yes? This shelving unit is very beautiful and detailed. It must be an antique.” “I don’t know anything about that,” she snapped, “what Mac gets herself mixed up in is none of my concern.” “So why exactly are we stopping the search?” Riley pressed. “Because the family is no longer interested in finding her,” she stressed, but for a moment she lacked the steadiness of her initial demeanor. Something was definitely off. “Unfortunately we can’t stop this search, Miss Kiplinger -,” Riley started. “- Right,” I continued, “because the family didn’t order the search in the first place.” “Of course they did,” she stammered, “she didn’t have friends so who else would order this?” “Well,” I paused for dramatic effect, “I’m glad you asked-“ “Pause was in the wrong place, Jax,” Riley whispered. “Let’s have a listen to how this whole thing started:” “MY NAME IS MAC KIPLINGER,” the image of Mac displayed from the device to prove it was, in fact, her speaking, “IF YOU’RE RECEIVING THIS MESSAGE, IT MEANS I NEED TO BE FOUND. MY FAMILY CANNOT BE TRUSTED. SEND YOUR BEST.” “I see,” Amelia sighed, clearly frustrated with her sister’s preemption, “We’re not done here.” But still, she turned on her heel and left. “What was that about,” Riley questioner, for once not on the same page. “Check out the shelves. They have an indent in the exact same pattern as the map. Looks like we have to slide something along here - grab me a pen! Read between the lines, huh.” The tip of the fountain pen fit like a key. We dragged it along a shelf, down the wall, along another shelf, up one level, and over another shelf until we reached the edge. At the end of the path we found an opening large enough to fully slide the pen into, and upon doing so, the entire shelving unit swung open. “It’s a doorway!” Riley marveled. The door revealed a room clearly devoted to the Lost Artifact search. Multiple devices projected various articles and locations - some clearly related to the search and some not at all - with more books piling the walls, seemingly more ancient with each passing pile. We turned a corner when finally - “Mac?” “Thanks for finding me boys.”