Tommy studies the photos. “I’ve left messages with contacts at the state historical preservation office, but official intervention would take days.”
I pull the small key from my pocket—the one Finn’s driftwood discovery had concealed. I’ve been carrying it since that morning, turning it over in idle moments, wondering what it unlocks. Now, studying Tommy’s sketch of the caretaker’s cottage, something clicks.
“Tommy, you said you maintained the cottage for years. Was there a cellar?”
“Small one. Root cellar, really. Original to the 1920s construction.” His eyes sharpen. “Why?”
“Reeves mentioned the star’s backing contained microfilm, but he said part of the information was missing. What if Dad hid something else separately? Something that needed a key?”
Sid leans forward. “A lockbox. Backup documentation.”
“Dad was methodical about everything,” I say. “He wouldn’t put all his evidence in one place.”
The plan reshapes around this new possibility. Sid will meet Reeves at six as expected, keeping him occupied with talk of Gillespie family records and the Star of Sebastian. Meanwhile, I’ll enter through the garden with Finn, but instead of just searching for my star, I’ll check the root cellar first.
“If there’s a lockbox, and this key fits it, I grab whatever’s inside along with the star,” I conclude. “That gives us leverage—and backup documentation even if something goes wrong.”
Tommy volunteers to wait on the access road, ready to call Chief Barnes if needed. We synchronize watches, test the old walkie-talkies from Dad’s fieldwork days, and review Tommy’s cottage layout one final time.
“Be careful,” Sid tells me as we prepare to leave. “Reeves has security with him.”
“I’ve got Finn.” I scratch my dog’s ears. “And I’m not leaving without that star.”
The caretaker’scottage emerges from the December darkness, lights glowing from its front windows. Tommy’s voice crackles through the walkie-talkie, confirming Sid has entered.
Finn and I circle through the trees to the garden entrance. The door is unlocked—careless confidence on Reeves’ part. We slip inside, the kitchen dark and musty.
Voices drift from the front room. Sid’s measured tones, Reeves’ clipped responses. Something about authentication and mutual benefit.
I find the cellar door where Tommy indicated, tucked behind a pantry shelf. The stairs descend into blackness. Finn goes first, his nose working the stale air.
My flashlight reveals a cramped stone space, cluttered with forgotten things—rusted tools, old crates, a broken chair. Against the far wall sits a small metal box, padlocked, thick with dust.
The key slides in perfectly.
Inside: a USB drive, a sealed envelope, and photographs I recognize as matching locations from Dad’s map. The envelope is addressed to “Dr. Caroline Mitchell, State Historical Preservation Office” in Dad’s handwriting.
He’d prepared everything. A complete backup, ready to mail to authorities if anything happened to him.
I pocket the USB drive and envelope, then head upstairs to find my star.
The second floor yields what I’m looking for. In a converted bedroom, my driftwood star lies in a metal case, its backing partially separated. Beside it rests an aged leather logbook. I photograph everything, then carefully transfer both items to my backpack.
The walkie-talkie crackles. Tommy’s voice, urgent: “Someone else arriving. Can’t identify.”
I peer through the window. A figure approaches from the access road—not police, not obviously threatening. The gait is familiar.
Dawson Morrow.
My stomach tightens. Is he working with Reeves after all?
Downstairs, voices rise. I hear Dawson’s gravelly tone joining the conversation, but the words are unclear. Then Sid, louderthan before: “I wasn’t aware this meeting included additional parties.”
I need to get out. But as I turn toward the stairs, footsteps thunder upward. One of Reeves’ security men appears at the landing, eyes widening when he spots me.
“She’s up here! She’s got the?—”
Finn moves before I can react. Seventy pounds of protective Schnauzer places himself between us, a deep growl freezing the man mid-sentence.
