Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
The mention of Dad from Dawson’s lips feels wrong somehow, considering their falling out. “With a spade?” I ask, nodding toward the tool he’s unsuccessfully trying to conceal behind his leg.
A flicker of annoyance crosses his weathered face. “Found it washed up on the beach. Was going to add it to my collection of maritime tools.”
The lie is so transparent I almost laugh. Instead, I step closer to where he had been digging, Finn at my side. “Funny coincidence, running into you here. Especially since this exact spot is marked on a map my father created.”
Dawson’s expression hardens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” I counter. “Just like I think you know something about my missing driftwood star.”
His eyes dart from me to Sid, then to the path leading back to the parking area. “Your father should have left well enough alone,” he says finally, his pretense of friendliness evaporating. “Some discoveries cause more trouble than they’re worth. You’d be wise to remember that.”
“What discoveries, Dawson?” I press. “What did Dad find?”
Instead of answering, Dawson shoulders past us. “Ask your new friend,” he says with a nod toward Sid. “His family has more connections to this than you know.”
With that cryptic remark, he strides away, leaving Sid and me staring after him in confusion.
“What did he mean by that?” I ask Sid, who looks as perplexed as I feel.
“I have no idea. My family has no history in Seacliff Haven. I’m the first Gillespie to live here.”
Finn whines softly, drawing our attention to the spot where Dawson had been digging. The hole is shallow, suggesting he had just begun his excavation when we interrupted him.
“Let’s see what he was after,” I suggest, kneeling by the disturbed sand.
Sid joins me, and together we carefully expand the hole. About a foot down, we uncover a fragment of wood, different from the usual driftwood found on the beach. This piece is darker, denser, with metal fixtures still attached.
“Part of a ship’s plank,” Sid identifies, gently brushing sand from the surface. “Look, there are initials carved here.”
Sure enough, partially obscured by corrosion and time, two letters are visible: S.M.
“S.M.,” I repeat, trying to place the significance. “Not my father. His initials were S.L.”
“Could be the ship’s name,” Sid suggests. “Or its captain.”
Whatever it represents, the wooden plank fragment clearly held enough importance for Dawson to seek it out. I carefully bag this find as well, adding it to the compass in my knapsack.
“Dawson knows more than he’s saying,” I observe as we begin our walk back. The day is advancing, and dark clouds gather on the horizon.
“Agreed. And that comment about my family makes no sense unless . . .” Sid trails off. “Unless he mistook me for someone else. My father was Alexander Gillespie, from Boston. Never set foot in Rhode Island as far as I know.”
The pieces refuse to align into a coherent picture. Dad’s research, the artifacts, Dawson’s warnings, the stolen star, the mysterious key. All connected somehow, but the pattern remains elusive.
“We should head back,” Sid suggests as the first fat raindrop hits the sand beside us. “Storm’s coming in faster than forecast.”
We quicken our pace, Finn trotting close beside us as the rain begins to fall more steadily. By the time we reach the parking area, we’re all thoroughly damp, and the wind has picked up considerably.
“Come to my gallery,” Sid offers. “It’s closer than your place. We can dry off and figure out our next steps.”
The invitation feels like another barrier falling between us. Yesterday, I would have declined immediately. Today, after our shared discovery and Dawson’s strange behavior, I find myself nodding in agreement.
“Let me grab a towel for Finn from my truck first. He’s not exactly a fan of being wet.”
As I open my truck door, something on the driver’s seat catches my eye. A small envelope, identical to the one left in my shop. My heart races as I pick it up, already dreading its contents.
Inside is another typed note:
STOP SEARCHING. THE PAST WILL ONLY BRING PAIN.
I show it to Sid, whose expression darkens. “They know we’re investigating,” he says grimly. “We’ve moved from warnings to surveillance.”
Someone is watching our every move, tracking our discoveries, perhaps even following us along the beach.
“We need to be careful,” I say, glancing around the empty parking lot. “Very careful.”
Sid nods agreement, his usual confident demeanor subdued. “Let’s regroup at the gallery. I think it’s time we consider bringing Chief Barnes into this.”
But as we drive toward town, I can’t help feeling we’ve passed a point of no return. We’ve uncovered two artifacts that suggest Dad found evidence of a shipwreck, possibly Portuguese, possibly valuable. Enough for someone to steal my star and leave threatening notes.
Enough, perhaps, for someone to take more drastic measures if we continue our search.