GULL POINT SECRETS

Chapter 3

The Gull Point Public Library was supposed to open at nine.

Waverly Vale arrived at eight forty-five, carrying a photocopy of the ledger and the uneasy feeling that someone had been watching her since sunrise.

A black SUV had followed her from the inn.

When she turned onto the library's narrow street, it continued toward the harbor. She couldn't prove it had been following her, but she memorized its license plate anyway.

Then she went inside.

“I'm looking for a disappearance case,” she told the librarian. “Elias Rook. Twelve years ago.”

The librarian's welcoming smile faded.

“Why are you asking about Elias?”

“Because I think the official story is incomplete.”

The older woman glanced toward the front windows before lowering her voice.

“People have asked questions before. Most eventually decided they had better things to do.”

“I'm not most people.”

“That's what everyone says before they understand Gull Point.”

The librarian introduced herself as Mrs. Bell and led Waverly to a back room filled with newspaper archives, old harbor maps, and dusty municipal records.

Within fifteen minutes, Waverly found the first problem.

The newspaper report claimed Elias's fishing boat had disappeared during a violent storm. Search crews had found no wreckage, no distress signal, and no reliable witness.

The investigation had officially closed two days later.

Two days.

Waverly read the article again.

A fisherman vanished at sea, yet the authorities had abandoned the search almost immediately.

“Was that normal?” she asked.

Mrs. Bell shook her head.

“Not when the missing person knew the harbor as well as Elias did.”

“Did he have enemies?”

“Everyone has enemies. Elias had something more dangerous.”

“What?”

“He knew where people buried their mistakes.”

Before Waverly could ask another question, Mrs. Bell pulled a second folder from the cabinet.

Inside was a photocopy of a harbor inspection report dated three days before Elias disappeared. Several lines had been blacked out. At the bottom, someone had written a reference number in blue ink.

The same number appeared beside the unexplained payment in Waverly's ledger.

Her pulse quickened.

“Can I copy this?”

“Not without permission from the town archives.”

“Who controls them?”

Mrs. Bell gave her a troubled look.

“Mercer Coastal paid for their digitization.”

Of course they had.

Waverly photographed the document with her phone.

“Thank you.”

“Miss Vale?”

She turned.

“If you find something important, make copies. Keep them somewhere safe. And don't assume the truth will protect you just because you've found it.”

Waverly left with more questions than answers.

At least now she knew the money in the ledger wasn't an isolated mistake.

It was connected to a missing fisherman, a questionable inspection, and a company controlled by the man threatening to take her home.

Hollis Mercer was waiting outside the inn when Waverly returned.

“You look like you've discovered something unpleasant,” he said.

“I'm beginning to think that's the town's official greeting.”

She showed him the inspection report.

His jaw tightened as soon as he saw Elias's name.

“My mother warned me about this.”

Waverly lowered the paper.

“What exactly did she say?”

Hollis glanced toward the road. “Not here.”

They walked to the old stone wall overlooking the cove. Fishing boats moved through the gray morning water, their engines cutting across the quiet.

“When I was seventeen, I overheard my mother arguing with my father,” Hollis began. “She said he had promised to protect someone, and instead he'd made that person disappear.”

“Elias?”

“I don't know. She refused to tell me. A few days later, she told me never to trust my father's version of the harbor accident.”

“Why didn't you investigate?”

“Because I was seventeen, my father controlled everything, and my mother begged me to stay out of it.”

He looked toward the water.

“Then she died, and I convinced myself that reopening old wounds wouldn't change anything.”

Waverly softened, but she didn't offer easy reassurance.

“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she was trying to protect someone else.”

“Do you think Dorian was involved?”

“I think the material deserves an honest investigation.”

It was the careful answer of someone who had spent years learning to measure every word around his father.

Waverly understood that caution. She had grown up watching people make promises they never intended to keep.

“I don't trust Dorian,” she said. “But I won't accuse him without proof.”

Hollis studied her.

“That's a sensible position.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I was expecting a speech about justice.”

“I can give you one if you'd prefer.”

“No, thank you.”

For a brief moment, they smiled at each other.

Then Hollis's gaze dropped to the report between them.

“We need someone who can verify these records independently.”

“There's a reporter named Sloane Kittredge. Mrs. Bell mentioned her articles about Elias.”

“I know her work. She's stubborn.”

“So am I.”

“That may be the first useful thing you have in common.”

Waverly nudged his shoulder with hers.

“Careful, Mercer. I'm starting to think you like me.”

His expression became unreadable.

“Don't confuse cooperation with affection.”

“Don't worry. I have excellent judgment.”

Neither of them looked away immediately.

The silence that followed was more uncomfortable than their arguments.

Waverly finally stepped back.

“Let's find the reporter.”

Sloane Kittredge worked in a cramped office above a hardware store on the edge of town. Newspapers covered one wall, while a large map of the coastline occupied another.

She listened without interrupting as Waverly explained the ledger, the inspection report, and the missing harbor map.

When Waverly finished, Sloane closed the office door.

“Do you have a copy of the original account book?”

“Not the entire book. Just the relevant pages.”

“Good. Don't hand over the original to anyone.”

“Why?”

“Because evidence has a habit of disappearing in this town.”

Sloane examined the photocopies.

“Elias was investigating unauthorized night shipments before he vanished. He believed someone was using an abandoned warehouse near the cove.”

“Who?”

“I never found out. My editor killed the story after the first article. Advertisers withdrew, my sources stopped answering, and one anonymous caller suggested I should be grateful I still had a job.”

“Did you stop investigating?” Hollis asked.

“I stopped publishing. That's not the same thing.”

She opened a drawer and removed a yellowed newspaper clipping.

It showed Elias standing beside his boat. Behind him, barely visible, was a large vessel with a distinctive white stripe along its hull.

Sloane pointed to the photograph.

“This vessel was never listed in the official harbor log for that night.”

“Can you identify it?” Waverly asked.

“Not yet. But the registration numbers may be recoverable from the original photograph.”

Waverly felt a surge of hope.

For the first time, they had something beyond suspicion: a photograph, a missing record, and an independent journalist willing to investigate.

Then the office door opened.

Dorian Mercer stepped inside.

Two men in dark suits stood behind him.

His eyes moved from Sloane to Hollis, then settled on the papers spread across the desk.

“How disappointing,” he said quietly. “I had hoped you would all show better judgment.”

Hollis stood.

“You have no business being here.”

“On the contrary. I have considerable business in this town.”

Dorian picked up the inspection report.

Waverly reached for it, but he held it just beyond her grasp.

“Old paperwork can be misleading,” he said. “Especially when people with no understanding of maritime operations begin drawing conclusions.”

“Then explain the payment to Harbor Recovery Services,” Waverly replied.

For an instant, nobody moved.

Dorian placed the document on the desk.

“I suggest you concentrate on saving your inn rather than inventing scandals.”

“Someone stole my mother's harbor map.”

“Perhaps you should secure your property more carefully.”

Hollis stepped between them.

“Leave her out of this.”

Dorian's expression hardened.

“Be careful, son. Your future depends on decisions you haven't yet made.”

“Then I'll make them myself.”

His father stared at him, apparently surprised by the answer.

Then Dorian turned to Waverly.

“The restoration funding I offered was a privilege, not an obligation. Continue this investigation, and I will withdraw every dollar.”

Waverly's stomach tightened.

Without that money, the inn's repairs would become almost impossible.

Dorian walked toward the door, then paused.

“One more thing. The harbor has a long memory. People who dig into its past rarely like what they uncover.”

He left.

Sloane immediately locked the door.

Hollis looked at Waverly.

“You can still walk away from this.”

She thought of her mother's exhausted face, the foreclosure notice, and Elias Rook's photograph.

“No,” she said. “I can't.”

Her phone vibrated.

An unknown number had sent her a photograph.

It showed the inn's office, taken from outside the shattered window.

A note surfaced beneath it:

WE KNOW WHAT YOU FOUND. NEXT TIME, WE WON'T LEAVE THE LEDGER.

Waverly raised her eyes to Hollis.

Someone had been watching them.

And whoever it was had just made one thing painfully clear.

Their investigation had already become personal.