Chapter 13
Jazmine, Seb, and I settled into patio chairs and chatted like we did when we were all the best of friends, about nothing
at all, silliness. Jokes and observations that made Jazmine’s relationship with Pretty Paul fade into the background. Look at us, just like old times. There was nothing we couldn’t overcome.
Well.
Maybe just one teeny, tiny thing.
When I was nine years old, a navy flight demonstration squadron came to town to perform some fancy flying at a public coast
guard ceremony at the harbor. Three blue-and-yellow jets soared over our lighthouse to the delight of the crowds that had
gathered to listen to a symphony performance in honor of several coast guard members—which included Seb’s father—receiving
service medals. During the air show, when one of the jets was demonstrating a roll, its engine cut out. At first, like everyone
else, I thought this was part of the staged show. But the nosediving jet spiraled downward, falling faster and faster toward
the harbor. Toward all of us watching. I was standing next to my nana, who shielded her eyes with her hand, looking up. When
she gasped and covered her mouth in shock, I suddenly realized that the jet was in trouble.
In that dizzying moment, with the silent jet spiraling toward us, I’d never felt so small. Nothing I could do would stop the jet from falling. Nothing Nana could do. My world was about to end, and I was powerless.
At the last second, the jet’s engine roared to life, and the pilot pulled up the nose. The crowd cheered. Everything was fine.
Everything was good.
But those moments before? That head-rushing, dazed feeling of smallness?
I was experiencing that again, right now, watching Seb lounging in the patio chair next to mine, laughing like a maniac with
Jazmine over something that I hadn’t heard because all the blood had rushed to my head and I couldn’t think straight.
There he was, my old friend, with his wavy blond mane and sun-kissed arms. With all that chaotic energy and charmed, buoyant
attitude.
He’s low-key obsessed with you.
True or not, I couldn’t purge Jazmine’s words from my thoughts. When Seb’s eyes jumped to mine, even for a second, everything
inside me went haywire, and I couldn’t think straight.
Seb was the spiraling jet falling out of the sky, about to destroy my world, and I could do nothing to stop it.
Truth be told, I think I wanted him to crash into me.
It made no sense, but there it was. I could admit it to myself now, I supposed. But it didn’t make me feel better because
I was still wrestling with guilt over Jazmine’s state of mind—I needed to be sure she was okay. I also knew if a jet named
Seb ever did come crashing down, there was nothing I could do but watch my life explode into flames.
“Earth to Paige.”
I blinked away those thoughts and looked at my friends. “What? Sorry, I missed that.”
Jazmine’s brow lifted, and she cleared her throat. “I said, do you have theories about the gold locket and those photos of Wyrd Jack and Mabel inside it?”
I stared at both of them blankly. They’re discussing the treasure hunt? Jesus, how long had I been daydreaming? I had to pull myself together and focus, stat.
“I don’t have any theories yet,” I admitted.
“What about the Black Book?” Seb suggested. “Is it still in the cottage?”
The Black Book was my nana’s ancient photo album. A real one, the cover bound in black silk. It was filled with old photos
that went back several generations. There were even a handful of Wyrd Jack—original versions of several prints that now hung
in the harbor museum.
“Can’t remember anything quite like the ones in the locket,” I said. “I haven’t looked through it in years, though. Worth
a try, I suppose.”
They both nodded at me, and it felt as if something hung in the air between the three of us. Maybe some of it was just the
drama of the evening, but a little drama never stopped the Wags from hunting treasure. Besides, Jazmine had said that she
needed the gang.
“Hey,” I said. “You guys can come over to the cottage and help me look, if you’re up to it.”
Seb’s brows lifted. “Sure, I’m game. Jaz?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I’d like that.”
“Should we text Benny?” Seb asked, shooting us both a questioning look.
“Is there any way you can convince him to come alone? No offense, but I can’t deal with Lulu again tonight,” I told them.
“We’ll call Benny if we find anything,” Seb suggested. “Let’s go.”
I stood up from my patio chair. “I only have one request. There’s a cold sausage roll stinking up my car right now, and I’d
rather eat my own shoe than touch it at this point. Can we raid your fridge, Jaz?”
“Seconded,” Seb said, opening the balcony door. “I haven’t had dinner, and now I’m sort of regretting turning down your mom’s
offer for leftovers when I walked in.”
“Same,” I said, and he gave me a soft smile that turned all my insides to exploding confetti as he headed inside the house.
“Ruh-oh,” Jazmine said teasingly behind my back as she followed us through the balcony door.
Ruh-oh was right.
We all took separate vehicles to Heron Cottage. The Corvair truly did stink with my discarded meaty hand pie, but it was a
welcome distraction from my chaotic thoughts for the short drive. By the time I’d dumped it into my trash can, Jazmine and
Seb were both parking behind me. And when I unlocked the front door, Punkin raced past me and headed straight for the bowl
of water in the kitchen.
“What’s going on with this?” Jazmine asked upon entering, gesturing toward Punkin. “My mom said she’d push that dog off our
balcony if it ever came in our house again.”
“No balconies here at the cottage,” Seb said. “Paige said she could crash here sometimes, so I guess the only Punkin hater
left is your mom. Your dad lets her lick his face.”
Jazmine snorted. “You know very well that my mom hates her because she had to steam-clean her favorite rug. Besides, Benny’s
dad says she has fleas, so my mom’s not the only hater. But I am surprised about you, Paige. We all know you and dogs don’t mix.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I opened the door to the basement and flipped on the lights. “Guess people change.”
Jogging down old steps, I inhaled cool, dank air. The basement was small and crowded, built into the side of the land that
made up the front yard, with a single window that looked out beneath the back porch. I’d always hated coming down to the basement
when I was a kid and only did so now to wash and dry clothes. But last year, before I’d left for school, Jazmine and her parents
helped me pack up most of Nana’s personal things into giant plastic totes.
They stood together near the washer and dryer, a wall of memories that I didn’t want to face.
As far as I could tell, the men who broke into the cottage never even made it to the basement. It remained just as I’d left
it last year.
None of the plastic totes were labeled, but I had a vague recollection of packing the photo album away, so it didn’t take
me long to segregate four plastic totes—which were so big, they required two people to carry. Seb and Jaz helped me haul them
upstairs, and after helping ourselves to leftover barbecued chicken and corn on the cob that almost made me weep with how
good it was, we switched on Nana’s old radio to a station out of Grand Rapids and proceeded to lounge on the living room rug
and dig through the boxes we’d brought upstairs.
I was thankful they were both here to help. I didn’t want to get swallowed by grief, sorting through all this stuff, and their
presence was tempering, along with all the drama of the night that tumbled around inside my head while we opened boxes and
talked.
Seb gave Jazmine a dramatic re-creation of our adventure on the Devil’s Revenge.
“And then we slipped inside the captain’s quarters like this .
. .” He demonstrated, hiding behind the boxes like he was trying to avoid getting shot by faux gunfire from the fictional FBI agents who were trailing us in his livened-up version of the events.
“Absolute foolishness,” Jazmine said, shaking her head and laughing.
After that, we took our time going through nana’s things, halting briefly to clean up our impromptu dinner and let Punkin
outside to pee, and when we settled back down to continue our search, Seb sat on the rug next to me, and we unsnapped the
lid of one of the big plastic totes and delved inside while Jaz answered a phone call from Patty.
As I finished sorting through a stack of books, Seb straightened out his leg and bumped into me.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
I glanced down, my gaze snagging on a shiny, triangular scar right above his knee. I knew that scar. It’d been there since
he was ten and hadn’t faded much over the years.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Seb asked, one side of his mouth lifting.
“It’s not mine,” I said.
He squinted at my face. “Are you screwing with me, Malone? This is absolutely your doing. You were pissed because I’d borrowed
that fishing boat—”
“You stole one of Mr. William’s boats.”
“—and threw that net at me, and a J-hook jabbed into my flesh.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d been shocked by the amount of blood. “I remember nearly passing out when you pulled out the hook.”
“You and me both,” he said, smiling.
I stared at the scar. “Your dad blamed me and got in a screaming match with Nana at the ER. He called me a jezebel, and I had no idea what that was, but I do remember him shouting that I was a bad influence on you. Talk about irony.”
Seb’s eyes slid toward mine. We both snickered, then he said, “Yeah, my mother had left us the year before, and Pops wasn’t
doing the best job dealing with it. He thought every female was trouble, no matter if it was you or Nana Malone, or the Virgin
Mary. But you’re missing the point. This scar? It’s your handiwork.”
“Fine, you’re right. I did that, and I’m still sorry.”
Seb set a pile of paperwork on the floor beside him. “I’m not. It’s proof of life.”
“Proof of life?”