Before I can answer, Dawson looks up. Even at this distance, I can see his expression change as he spots us. He quickly pockets something small, then straightens, brushing sand from his hands with deliberate casualness.
“Well, well,” he calls as we approach, his tone forcedly jovial. “The artists are beach combing today! Find any good driftwood?”
“Just enjoying the fresh air,” I reply, watching him carefully. “Interesting to see you out here, Dawson. I thought antiques were more your interest than beachcombing.”
“Old habits,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Your father and I used to walk these beaches looking for interesting pieces. Thought I’d take a nostalgic stroll.”
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.
