Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Reeves expects us at six,” I remind them, spreading out the lighthouse cellar photos. “Alone, with information about what’s hidden in the wall.”
“Which we won’t provide,” Sid says. “But we need a plan that doesn’t involve surrendering historical artifacts to black market dealers.”
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’s cottage 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, louder than 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.
“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, their careful 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.
“The auction. The excavation. Probably media interest once word spreads.”
“Then we should get some rest.” He hesitates. “Unless you’d like company for a while. I make decent hot chocolate, and I suspect neither of us will sleep easily after tonight.”
Finn looks up at me, then at Sid, tail swaying gently.
“Hot chocolate sounds good,” I admit.
We drive in separate cars to Sid’s apartment above the gallery, Finn claiming the passenger seat with his usual dignity. The familiar streets of Seacliff Haven glitter with Christmas lights, the town unaware of the drama that unfolded at its edges.
Tomorrow brings revelations and resolutions. Tonight, unexpected companionship feels like exactly what I need.