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“Grandpa gave each of us a piece,” I say.

Thomas nods slowly. “The lens wasn’t lost during transport.”

“He broke it apart,” Storm whispers.

“No.” Thomas’s face has gone pale. “A Fresnel lens is made from hundreds of carefully fitted glass prisms. James didn’t break it.”

Ben looks at the list of our names.

“He removed five pieces.”

“And hid them with us,” I say.

Keating takes the phone off speaker and gives orders for the case, birthday cards and every item inside the compartment to be brought to the evidence room.

Ward looks at Thomas. “Why would five pieces of a lighthouse lens matter?”

“I don’t know.”

Nathan lifts the photograph of the metallic structure extending from Rising Tide toward Blackwater.

“Maybe the pieces aren’t important by themselves.”

I remember what Ivy said.

The numbers beneath Grandpa’s drawing looked like coordinates, but they didn’t lead anywhere.

“What if the pieces are meant to be put together?” I ask. “Not to rebuild the lens. To reveal something.”

Ben turns toward me. “Light passing through the glass.”

“Grandpa always said to look at what the light reveals.”

Thomas stares at me.

For a moment, he looks as though he’s seeing Grandpa instead.

“James used to say that when we sailed at night.”

“He said it to me too.”

Keating gathers the photographs into a neat stack. “Then no one touches the glass until the evidence team examines it.”

“What about the other four pieces?” Storm asks.

“If James gave one to each of you, we find them before the person watching your family does.”

I think of my yacht where I live most of the time.

My cabin aboard Sea Whisper.

The boxes Mom packed after Grandpa died.

Every birthday gift he ever gave me.

A terrible realization hits me.

I release Ben’s hand and grab the edge of the table.