“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.
The rain pounds against my windshield as Finn shakes himself in the passenger seat, sending droplets flying. In the rearview mirror, I can see Sid’s silver Audi following close behind. My new ally in this unexpected mystery.
I touch the knapsack containing our discoveries, wondering what Dad would advise if he were here. Keep searching for the truth? Or leave the past buried where it lies?
One thing is clear as I drive through the storm toward town: finding my driftwood star isn’t just about recovering a cherished creation anymore. It’s about uncovering a secret someone desperately wants to keep hidden. A secret worth threatening for.
A secret that might have shaped my father’s final days in ways I never understood.
Chapter Five
The interior of The Lighthouse Gallery feels like stepping into another world after the windswept beach. Clean white walls display Sid’s driftwood sculptures, each piece transformed into something elegant and otherworldly. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows, highlighting the natural curves and textures of the wood. The space couldn’t be more different from my cozy, cluttered shop.
“Let me get you a towel,” Sid says, disappearing into a back room while Finn shakes himself vigorously, sending droplets flying across the polished concrete floor.
“Finn, manners,” I scold gently, though I secretly enjoy seeing the pristine gallery slightly disheveled.
Sid returns with plush towels and two mugs of something steaming. “Hot chocolate,” he explains, handing me a mug. “Always tastes better after getting soaked.”
The unexpected thoughtfulness catches me off guard again. Where is the aloof, competitive Sid Gillespie I thought I knew?
I dry Finn thoroughly while Sid spreads our findings on a large worktable normally used for framing. The compass, the wooden plank fragment with the initials S.M., and the mysterious key form a small but intriguing collection.
“What do we know for certain?” Sid asks, his methodical approach somewhat comforting amid the confusion of the past two days.
I sit across from him, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. “My father was researching something with historical significance, likely connected to a shipwreck. He created a map marking seven locations along the beach. So far, we’ve found artifacts at two of those locations. Someone stole my driftwood star, possibly because it contains another clue. And that same someone is leaving threatening notes, trying to scare us away from further investigation.”
“And Dawson Morrow is somehow involved,” Sid adds. “He was specifically searching at the location marked on your father’s map.”
Finn settles at my feet, apparently content despite the unfamiliar surroundings. His calm presence grounds me as I try to make sense of the puzzle pieces.
“We need to understand what makes these artifacts valuable enough to steal for,” I say, studying the compass. “Are they historically significant, or is there something more?”
Sid leans forward, his expression thoughtful. “There have been rumors of a lost Portuguese ship along this coast for generations. The Salvador Mundi, supposedly carrying religious artifacts and gold when it disappeared in a storm in 1587. Most historians consider it a legend, but some believe the wreck could be somewhere near Seacliff Haven.”
“Salvador Mundi,” I repeat slowly. “S.M. The initials on the plank.”
“Possibly,” Sid acknowledges. “But many ships from that era could have those initials.”
I pull out my phone, searching for information about the Salvador Mundi. “Not much online,” I observe after scanninga few pages. “Just brief mentions in articles about East Coast shipwrecks.”
