“You’re right. We should be orderly about this. Let’s go home and make a proper plan.”
The drive back to my small cottage near the lighthouse takes less than ten minutes. The cozy Cape Cod-style house had been Dad’s, left to me along with the shop. Like the shop, I’ve made it my own while preserving elements of his presence. His collection of nautical maps still hangs in the study. His old telescope still stands by the bay window overlooking the water.
Once inside, I spread the map on the kitchen table, weighing down the corners with seashells. Finn settles nearby, watching me.
The map isn’t as detailed as I’d initially hoped. The coastline is recognizable as Seacliff Haven’s shore, but the symbols marking the seven locations offer little explanation of what might be found there. Still, I know this stretch of beach intimately. Finding each spot should be possible, especially with Finn’s help.
I’m making notes on each location when my phone rings. Sid Gillespie’s name appears on the screen, surprising me. We exchanged numbers years ago for a town business association, but he’s rarely called.
“Hello?”
“Marnie, it’s Sid. Any luck finding the star?”
His direct approach catches me off guard. “Not yet. Why?”
There’s a pause before he answers. “I’ve received a note. Similar to yours, I think.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What did it say?”
“‘Stay away from the star,’“ he quotes. “‘Some treasures are better left unfound.’”
“When did you get this?”
“It was slipped under the gallery door sometime this afternoon. I found it when I closed up.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I say, more to myself than to Sid. “Why warn you to stay away from something that’s already missing?”
“Unless,” Sid suggests slowly, “whoever took it expects you to find it again. And they don’t want me involved when you do.”
“We need to talk,” I decide. “Not over the phone.”
“I agree. Tomorrow morning? I can come to your shop before opening hours.”
I hesitate, remembering the figure watching us at the beach. Trust feels like a luxury I can’t afford right now. But Sid has received a warning too, which suggests he’s not behind the theft.
“My house would be better,” I say finally. “Eight o’clock.”
After hanging up, I return to the map. Two warning notes. A map from my father. A mysterious watcher. And at the center of it all, a missing driftwood star made from pieces collected with Dad during his final months.
“What were you up to, Dad?” I whisper to the empty room. “What did you find?”
Finn rests his head on my knee. I stroke his wiry coat, finding reassurance in his solid presence.
The rational part of me knows I should take everything to Chief Barnes. The bottle, the map, both warning notes. Let the professionals handle it. But another part, the part that inherited Dad’s stubborn independence, wants to pursue this myself. At least until I understand what “the past” refers to in the warning.
My gaze falls on Dad’s study door. Inside are boxes of his papers that I’ve never fully sorted through. Environmental reports, correspondence, research notes. The task had been too painful after his death, so I’d simply packed everything away.
“Maybe it’s time, huh, Finn?”
Rising from the table, I head for the study, Finn following close behind. The room smells faintly of Dad’s pipe tobacco, a scent that lingers after his last smoke. Bookshelves line thewalls, filled with volumes on marine biology, local history, and conservation. The desk faces the window, positioned so he could look out at the lighthouse while working.
The boxes of papers sit stacked in the corner, labeled by year. I pull down the ones from his final year, the time when we collected the driftwood for my star.
For the next several hours, I sift through reports, letters, and handwritten notes. Most relate to his ongoing conservation projects, routine matters that reveal nothing unusual. Finn eventually curls up on the small sofa, watching me work until his eyes grow heavy and close.
Just as my own exhaustion threatens to overtake me, I find something. A folder labeled simply “SH Project,” tucked between environmental impact statements. Inside are photographs of various beach locations, some corresponding to the marks on the map. Handwritten notes detail observations about tidal patterns, sand erosion, and references to “artifacts” and “historical significance” pepper the margins.
One photo catches my attention. A close-up of what appears to be an old piece of metal embedded in rock, barely visible among seafloor growth. The caption reads:
