“Don’t,” I warn. “He’s faster than you think.”
The man reaches for his radio. I have seconds before Reeves knows.
Then, from below, Dawson’s voice cuts through clearly: “Jonathan, I think you should know—I’ve been documenting your activities for the state preservation office. Everything. The threats, the stolen artifacts, the black market connections. Chief Barnes has officers waiting outside.”
Chaos erupts. Shouting, movement, what sounds like furniture toppling. The security man turns toward the stairs, torn between his duty and the disaster unfolding below.
I don’t wait. “Finn, come.”
We push past him, down the stairs, through the kitchen, out into the cold December night. Behind us, blue and red lights suddenly illuminate the cottage as police cars converge from the access road.
I keep running until I reach Tommy’s position, Finn loping beside me. Only then do I turn, breathing hard, and watch officers enter the cottage.
“You got it?” Tommy asks.
I pat my backpack. “The star. The logbook. And something else Dad left behind.”
An hour later, the cottage has transformed into a crime scene. Reeves and his security team sit in police vehicles, theircareful plans collapsed. Chief Barnes has taken statements from all of us, his expression suggesting both irritation and grudging respect.
Dawson finds me standing apart from the activity, Finn pressed against my leg.
“You could have told me,” I say before he can speak. “Instead of cryptic warnings and misdirection.”
He sighs, looking every one of his seventy-plus years. “Samuel and I had our falling out, but when Reeves approached me about coastal properties, I recognized what he really wanted. I couldn’t let him destroy what your father spent years documenting.”
“So you played double agent.”
“I fed Reeves information to maintain access while building a case with the preservation office. The warnings I left you—I genuinely wanted you to stay safe. But when you kept investigating anyway . . .” A ghost of a smile. “You’re Samuel’s daughter, through and through.”
I think of Dad’s backup envelope, addressed and ready. “He knew something might happen. He prepared for it.”
“He prepared for everything. That’s why his documentation is airtight. Reeves never stood a chance, not really. He just didn’t know it.”
Sid approaches, and Dawson steps away with a nod.
“Quite an evening,” Sid says.
“You kept him talking long enough for me to find everything.”
“I had excellent material. Grandfather’s obsession with Portuguese shipwrecks turns out to be useful for something besides awkward family dinners.” He pauses. “I should have told you about the family connection earlier. The collecting, the interest in the Salvador Mundi. I’ve spent years distancing myself from it, but that’s not an excuse for omission.”
“Dawson suggested you might have ulterior motives.”
“Did you believe him?”
I consider the question honestly. “I considered it. But you’ve had plenty of chances to act against me, and you haven’t. You’ve just . . . helped.”
“That’s all I wanted to do.”
Chief Barnes approaches with an update. The star and logbook will remain in police custody overnight for documentation, but should be released by morning—plenty of time for the auction. Dad’s backup materials have been transferred to Dr. Mitchell at the preservation office. The lighthouse cellar wall will be professionally excavated tomorrow.
“Your father’s discovery is officially protected,” Barnes tells me. “The Salvador Mundi site will receive historical designation. No development, no black-market sales. It stays where it belongs—preserved for study.”
As the police activity winds down and we prepare to leave, I realize the weight I’ve carried since the star vanished has finally lifted. Not because the mystery is solved, but because Dad’s work is safe. His careful documentation will ensure the Salvador Mundi and whatever lies in that lighthouse cellar wall receives proper treatment.
The star will return to fulfill its original purpose at the auction, supporting the conservation fund Dad established. Its secret role complete, it can simply be what I created it to be: a memorial to our last months together, built from pieces of our shared story.
“Tomorrow’s going to be busy,” Sid observes as we reach our cars.
