GULL POINT SECRETS

Chapter 2

The lighthouse went dark at 11:17 p.m.

Waverly Vale stood frozen beside the shattered office window, the threatening photograph trembling between her fingers. Across the room, Hollis Mercer was already calling the police.

“Tell them someone broke into the inn,” she said. “And mention the stolen harbor map.”

Hollis lowered his phone. “If we tell them everything, my father will know exactly what we've found.”

“He probably already does.”

“Then we need to be careful about what we reveal.”

A noise came from outside.

Footsteps.

Waverly rushed toward the window, but Hollis caught her attention with a sharp whisper.

“Don't.”

A shadow moved across the courtyard and disappeared behind the old boathouse.

Hollis grabbed a flashlight. “Stay here.”

“Absolutely not.”

She followed him into the rain.

They reached the boathouse just as an engine roared somewhere beyond the harbor. A black vehicle sped down the coastal road, its headlights vanishing around a bend.

Waverly found something near the gate: a brass key attached to a small metal tag.

Three letters had been engraved on it.

H.T.

“Harbor Trust?” she guessed.

Hollis examined it. “Possibly. My father has accounts there.”

“Your father has accounts everywhere, apparently.”

“That's what happens when you own half the coastline.”

“And the other half?”

“He's working on it.”

Despite the danger, Waverly almost laughed.

Then she spotted the muddy footprints leading from the gate toward the water.

Someone had come looking for something.

And they hadn't found it.

By morning, the inn had become the center of a family war.

Dorian Mercer arrived at breakfast with two lawyers, a property assessor, and a document outlining the proposed sale of Gull Point Inn.

Maribel Vale stared at the papers as if they were a death sentence.

“You promised me six months,” she said.

“I promised Waverly six months to produce a viable business plan,” Dorian replied. “I never promised to ignore a security breach or a deteriorating property.”

Waverly slammed her palm against the table.

“Someone broke into my office last night.”

“Then call the police.”

“They stole my mother's harbor map.”

For a fraction of a second, Dorian's expression changed.

It was small, but Waverly caught it.

“You should stop digging through old family possessions,” he said.

“Why? Afraid I'll find something?”

Hollis entered the dining room before his father could answer.

He wore yesterday's shirt beneath a dark jacket. His hair was still damp, and his expression suggested he hadn't slept.

“The assessor's valuation is wrong,” he announced, dropping a set of architectural plans onto the table.

Dorian looked irritated. “This is a private family meeting.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn't have invited the entire town's legal department.”

One of the lawyers cleared his throat.

Waverly glanced at the plans. The proposed marina occupied nearly the entire cove, including the public walkway beside the inn.

“You're planning to close the beach?” she asked.

“Temporarily,” Dorian said.

“For construction?”

“For development.”

Hollis pointed to a section marked in red. “The retaining wall won't survive the proposed excavation. The protected shoreline regulations could stop the entire project.”

“Your job is to solve engineering problems, not create them.”

“My job is to tell you when your plans are dangerous.”

Dorian leaned back.

“Then perhaps I should hire someone who understands loyalty.”

Hollis met his father's gaze.

“Perhaps you should hire someone who understands the law.”

The room fell silent.

Waverly had expected Hollis to defend his family. Instead, he had challenged the most powerful man in Gull Point in front of witnesses.

She wasn't sure whether to admire him or distrust him more.

After breakfast, Waverly found Hollis examining a c***k in the dining-room foundation.

“You could have told me about the shoreline problem yesterday,” she said.

“I could have.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because yesterday you were ready to throw me out of your house.”

“It's an inn.”

“Even worse. You'd have charged me for the privilege.”

She folded her arms. “Are you always this irritating?”

“Only when I'm tired.”

“Then you must be unbearable after a full night's sleep.”

His smile disappeared as he examined the c***k.

“This building can be saved,” he said. “But not cheaply. The foundation needs reinforcement, the roof needs replacing, and the drainage system is practically prehistoric.”

“Thank you for the inspiring assessment.”

“You asked me to be honest.”

“I didn't ask you to sound delighted about my financial ruin.”

“I'm not delighted.”

For one heartbeat, something sincere crossed his face.

“Waverly, I know what this place means to your mother. I also know what my father intends to do with it. If the inn fails, he'll claim the sale was inevitable.”

“And if it succeeds?”

“He loses his easiest excuse.”

Waverly studied him.

“Why help me?”

Hollis hesitated.

“Because I grew up here. My mother loved this cove. She used to say that a harbor belonged to the people who depended on it, not the people who could afford to buy it.”

“Your mother sounds sensible.”

“She was.”

The past tense settled between them.

Waverly softened. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You didn't know her.”

“No. But I know what it feels like to lose the one person who made a place feel like home.”

For the first time, Hollis looked at her without sarcasm.

Something passed between them, brief and unsettling.

Then Maribel called from the kitchen, and the moment vanished.

That afternoon, Waverly discovered the inn's accounts had been accessed remotely.

The computer showed a login from an unfamiliar device at 2:06 a.m., shortly before the office window was broken.

Someone had searched for a folder labeled HARBOR RECOVERY.

The folder was missing.

But the system had retained a partial backup.

Waverly opened the recovered document and found a list of payments made twelve years earlier. Most were too vague to mean anything. One entry, however, included the name Elias Rook.

Beside it was a reference number matching the brass key.

Hollis leaned over her shoulder.

“That's the same number as the tag we found last night.”

“So whoever broke in was looking for these records.”

“Or trying to make sure we never found them.”

Waverly printed the page.

“We need someone who knows the original investigation.”

“There's a reporter in town,” Hollis said. “Sloane Kittredge. She covered the disappearance.”

“Can she be trusted?”

“I don't know.”

“Wonderful. Everyone in your life sounds trustworthy.”

“Everyone in my life has a lawyer.”

“That's not reassuring.”

Before they could leave, a text appeared on Waverly's phone.

It came through a burner phone.

YOU HAVE UNTIL SUNSET TO RETURN THE KEY.

Waverly stared at the screen.

Hollis read it twice.

“We should give it to the police.”

“And tell them we found it near the boathouse after an intruder stole my mother's map?”

“Yes.”

“What if the police are protecting whoever did this?”

“Then we document everything and make copies of the records.”

Waverly hated how reasonable he sounded.

She also hated that he was right.

She sent copies of the recovered payment record to a new email account and saved another version on a flash drive.

Then she slipped the brass key into her pocket.

“Let's find Sloane.”

They found the reporter in a small café overlooking Gull Point's harbor.

Sloane Kittredge was in her thirties, sharp-eyed, and dressed in a weatherproof coat covered with handwritten notes tucked into its pockets.

She examined the payment record without touching it.

“Where did you get this?”

“An old backup from the inn's computer,” Waverly replied.

Sloane's expression tightened at the name Elias Rook.

“His disappearance was never properly investigated.”

“Why not?” Hollis asked.

“Because the official report said he went out in dangerous weather without a functioning radio. His boat was never recovered, and the case was closed within forty-eight hours.”

“That doesn't prove anything,” Hollis said.

“No. But the harbor logs showed another vessel leaving the cove that night. That record disappeared from the public file.”

Waverly placed the brass key on the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

Sloane turned it over.

For the first time, she looked genuinely frightened.

“Where did you find it?”

“Near the boathouse.”

She pushed the key back toward Waverly.

“Put that away.”

“Why?”

“Because Harbor Trust isn't just a bank. It manages several old maritime accounts connected to the Mercer estate.”

Hollis went still.

Sloane lowered her voice.

“If that key opens the locker I think it does, you may be looking at evidence someone has spent twelve years trying to bury.”

Before Waverly could ask another question, Sloane's phone rang.

She answered, listened for three seconds, and abruptly stood.

“Someone just reported a fire at the old harbor archive.”

Waverly rose.

“What?”

Sloane grabbed her coat.

“If those records are still inside, they'll be gone before the firefighters arrive.”

Hollis was already heading for the door.

Waverly followed him into the street.

Across the harbor, a column of black smoke climbed into the afternoon sky.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Another message.

THE NEXT FIRE WON'T BE AN ACCIDENT.

Waverly looked at Hollis.

He read the text, and every trace of humor disappeared from his face.

They had been investigating a disappearance.

Now someone was willing to destroy an entire archive to stop them.

And sunset was still an hour away.