I agree. We head back toward the lighthouse parking. The morning’s discoveries have clarified things. The Salvador Mundi seems real, not legend. Dad assembled convincing evidence.
At Sid’s car, practicalities hit me. “We need secure storage for these. My house or your gallery could be vulnerable if Reeves escalates.”
“Small safe at the gallery,” Sid offers. “Not ideal, but better than exposed.”
“My cottage has a basement with a solid lock. Dad installed it.”
We choose my basement. Lower profile than Sid’s gallery. After securing the artifacts, Sid drives me to the old fishing pier at the southern end of the main beach. The town buzzes with Christmas Market activity, colorful booths brightening the gray December day.
“Text when you finish,” Sid says as Finn and I exit. “I’ll pick you up or meet you at your place with whatever I find about Coastal Development.”
Watching Sid drive away creates an unexpected unease. Our partnership, formed so fast under strange circumstances, has become comfortable. Its absence leaves a void.
“Just us for now, buddy,” I tell Finn, who tilts his head.
The pier stretches fifty yards into the water, weathered boards hosting a few fishermen despite the festivities. The sixth location isn’t under the pier but in a small cove beyond it, hidden from the main beach by a curve in the shoreline.
Finn and I take the public path, then walk casually toward the cove. Just a woman exercising her dog, not a treasure hunter with a mysterious map.
The cove appears as we round the bend. Small and sheltered, gentler waves than the main beach. Always popular with families. Today it’s empty, everyone drawn to the Christmas Market.
The map marks a spot near a rock formation shaped like a turtle shell. Another unique symbol: a small key. Given our actual key discovery in the driftwood, this seems significant.
“Another key, maybe?” I ask Finn.
He responds by investigating immediately, nose working the sand. I follow slowly, trying to visualize how Dad saw this place.What did he find here? What connects to the other sites? To the Salvador Mundi?
I’m examining the turtle rock when I almost miss Finn’s excited pawing. By the time I join him, he’s dug a small hole, revealing something pale against darker sand.
“Good boy.” I kneel beside his discovery.
Not metal this time. A fragment of parchment or very old paper, preserved in a sealed glass vial. The vial looks modern, suggesting Dad found the document and protected it.
I extract it with gloved hands. The document inside is fragile, edges crumbling despite protection. Through the glass, faded handwriting in Portuguese or Spanish. Maybe a partial map or diagram.
“Ship’s log,” I murmur. “Or navigator’s notes.”
This could offer written confirmation of the Salvador Mundi off Seacliff Haven’s coast. Dad must have recognized its importance, preserving it before reburying for safekeeping.
I photograph from multiple angles, careful not to expose it to direct sunlight. Finn tenses beside me. A low growl.
I look up. Dawson Morrow stands at the cove entrance, watching with an unreadable expression.
“Thought I’d find you here, Marnie,” he calls, walking toward us. “Still following your father’s treasure map.”
Finn positions himself between us. Not threatening, but protective. I pocket the vial and stand.
“Not just me. You’ve been following it too, based on our encounter yesterday.”
Dawson stops a few yards away, respecting Finn’s warning. “Samuel should never have made that map. Some things are better left alone.”
“Like a historically significant shipwreck that might interfere with development plans?”
Surprise flickers across his weathered face. “So you met Reeves.”
“This morning. He admitted taking my star.”
Dawson sighs, looking every one of his seventy-plus years. “I tried to warn you. Those notes were meant to protect you, not threaten.”
