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)
“My house would be better,” I say finally. “Eight o’clock.”
After hanging up, I return to the map. Two warning notes. A map from my father. A mysterious watcher. And at the center of it all, a missing driftwood star made from pieces collected with Dad during his final months.
“What were you up to, Dad?” I whisper to the empty room. “What did you find?”
Finn rests his head on my knee. I stroke his wiry coat, finding reassurance in his solid presence.
The rational part of me knows I should take everything to Chief Barnes. The bottle, the map, both warning notes. Let the professionals handle it. But another part, the part that inherited Dad’s stubborn independence, wants to pursue this myself. At least until I understand what “the past” refers to in the warning.
My gaze falls on Dad’s study door. Inside are boxes of his papers that I’ve never fully sorted through. Environmental reports, correspondence, research notes. The task had been too painful after his death, so I’d simply packed everything away.
“Maybe it’s time, huh, Finn?”
Rising from the table, I head for the study, Finn following close behind. The room smells faintly of Dad’s pipe tobacco, a scent that lingers after his last smoke. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on marine biology, local history, and conservation. The desk faces the window, positioned so he could look out at the lighthouse while working.
The boxes of papers sit stacked in the corner, labeled by year. I pull down the ones from his final year, the time when we collected the driftwood for my star.
For the next several hours, I sift through reports, letters, and handwritten notes. Most relate to his ongoing conservation projects, routine matters that reveal nothing unusual. Finn eventually curls up on the small sofa, watching me work until his eyes grow heavy and close.
Just as my own exhaustion threatens to overtake me, I find something. A folder labeled simply “SH Project,” tucked between environmental impact statements. Inside are photographs of various beach locations, some corresponding to the marks on the map. Handwritten notes detail observations about tidal patterns, sand erosion, and references to “artifacts” and “historical significance” pepper the margins.
One photo catches my attention. A close-up of what appears to be an old piece of metal embedded in rock, barely visible among seafloor growth. The caption reads:
Confirmed. Portuguese origin. 16th century.
Then, a single sheet with a list of coordinates and a cryptic note:
Evidence compiled. Designation pending. Must verify final site.
Dad had been working on something significant, something he kept relatively quiet. The last notation in the folder is dated just two weeks before his sudden heart attack.
I check the map against the locations in the folder. They match. Whatever Dad had discovered, he’d marked the evidence trail carefully, perhaps intending to create a formal report.
But for what? A historical shipwreck? An archaeological site? Why would anyone care enough about this to pilfer my star and leave threatening notes?
The answer might lie at the remaining locations on the map. Places where Dad had apparently found evidence of . . . what?
I yawn, suddenly aware of how late it’s grown. The clock on Dad’s desk shows nearly midnight. The investigation will have to wait until morning, after I speak with Sid.
“Come on, Finn,” I say softly, rousing the drowsy dog. “Bedtime.”
Finn stretches and follows me upstairs to the bedroom, settling in his customary spot at the foot of the bed. I place the map and folder on my nightstand.
Sleep comes fitfully; my dreams filled with broken images of driftwood stars, glass bottles, and shadowy figures watching from the dunes. I wake several times, reaching out to touch the map.
Morning arrives with the distant sound of foghorns and the smell of salt air through my partially open window. Finn already stands alert by the bedroom door.
I dress quickly in jeans, a thick sweater, and my sturdiest boots. Today we’ll visit the second location on the map, but first, the conversation with Sid. I’m still not sure how much to share with him. His note suggests he’s a target too, but old habits of caution die hard.
Preparing coffee and a quick breakfast, I lay out the map and folder on the kitchen table once more. In daylight, my late-night discoveries seem both more real and more puzzling. What had Dad found that was worth all this secrecy and apparent threat?
A knock at the door sends Finn into a flurry of deep, authoritative barks. Through the window, I see Sid’s tall figure standing on my porch, right on time at eight o’clock.
“Quiet, Finn,” I command gently, moving to answer the door. “Let’s see what Mr. Gillespie knows about all this.”
As I reach for the doorknob, I hesitate. The driftwood piece Finn found on the beach, the one so similar to part of my star . . . I never examined it closely. Could it contain a clue as well?