The thought sends another chill through me. Someone had been in my shop while I was gone, touching my things, stealing my work, and doing who knows what. I glance around my shop again, wondering if whoever hid a camera in here.
I sigh heavily. “I need to get a new lock. Something more secure.”
“Stay with me tonight,” Klara offers. “You and Finn. Just until we figure this out.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’ll be fine at home. Whoever did this got what they wanted.”
But even as I say the words, I wonder if that’s true. The note suggests this might just be the beginning.
Finn follows me to the door as I flip the sign to “Closed.” I’d planned to join the Christmas Market setup today, but finding the star has to take priority.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I tell him, scratching under his bearded chin. “Dad always said you were the best treasure hunter on the beach. Time to put those skills to work.”
Finn gives a soft “woof,” his posture alert and ready.
As we step outside, the cheerful sounds of the market preparations fill the air. Volunteers string garlands between lampposts, and the scent of Ned’s gingerbread wafts from his bakery. It should feel festive, but all I can think about is the star, crafted from pieces of driftwood that told the story of my final months with Dad.
And the note in my pocket.
“First stop, Shoreline Antiques,” I tell Finn, who trots faithfully beside me. “Let’s see what Dawson knows.”
As we walk down Harbor Street, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us. I turn suddenly, scanning the busy sidewalk, but see nothing suspicious. Just townspeople and early tourists, all focused on their holiday preparations.
Still, the sensation prickles at the back of my neck.
Forget about the past or lose more than your driftwood.
The past. But which past? My personal history with Dad? His environmental work? Something else entirely?
One thing is certain: I’m not forgetting anything. That star represents too much, means too much. I’ll find it, no matter what secrets I have to uncover along the way.
I just hope I’m prepared for what those secrets might be.
Chapter Three
My conversation with Dawson Morrow had been frustratingly unhelpful. His antique shop, cluttered with maritime artifacts and dusty heirlooms, had yielded nothing but vague remarks about the past being best left buried. When I showed him the note, his weathered face had betrayed a flicker of . . . concern? Recognition? But he quickly dismissed it as “probably just kids playing pranks.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. But something in his expression gave me pause—not guilt exactly, more like fear. And not fear of me. Fearforme, maybe. He kept glancing toward the street as if expecting someone.
Now, as the sun dips closer to the horizon, I find myself drawn to South Shore Beach. Finn trots beside me, his black coat standing out against the pale sand as we follow the familiar path down to the water.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask him as we reach the shoreline. “Any brilliant ideas about who took our star?”
Finn looks up at me. Then he sneezes.
The beach stretches empty in both directions, most people having retreated to the warmth of their homes or the festivities in town. Winter beaches possess a stark beauty that summercrowds rarely appreciate. The waves roll in, leaving their offerings along the tideline before retreating back to the depths.
“Dad always said the ocean gives up its secrets if you know how to look,” I murmur, more to myself than to Finn.
My thoughts drift to the star, each piece of driftwood carefully selected and meaningful. I try to imagine who would want to take it, and why they would connect it to some vague warning about the past. Sid remains a suspect, despite his seemingly genuine offer of help. Old rivalries die hard. Then there’s Dawson, with his evasive answers and long history with my father.
I’m so lost in thought that I nearly miss Finn’s change in behavior. He’s moved ahead, nose to the ground, tracking something.
“Finn? What is it?”
His head lifts briefly at my voice, but then returns to his task, moving with purpose toward a cluster of weathered rocks that jut into the water. I follow, curious about what has captured his attention.
Finn stops at the base of the rocks, pawing at the sand. I kneel beside him, brushing away the damp sand where he indicates.
