GULL POINT SECRETS

Chapter 4

“We need rules.”

Waverly Vale placed the forged invoice on the kitchen table. Outside, rain battered the windows of Gull Point Inn, and the sea crashed against the rocks below.

Hollis Mercer read the alert twice.

“Someone wants us to stop investigating,” he said.

“Someone who knows what we found, where we went, and probably what we ate for breakfast.”

“Then we should assume we're being watched.”

“Wonderful. I'll make coffee for our invisible audience.”

Hollis almost smiled, but his attention returned to the alert.

Waverly folded her arms. “I'm serious. If we're going to investigate Elias Rook's disappearance together, we need rules.”

“Agreed. No confronting my father without evidence. No meeting unknown sources alone. And no keeping important discoveries from each other.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That last one sounds suspiciously personal.”

“I'm trying to prevent mistakes.”

“So am I. Rule four: you don't make decisions for me just because you think you can protect me.”

Hollis held her gaze.

“Fair.”

“Rule five: this partnership stays practical.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Of course.”

The answer came too quickly.

Waverly hated that she noticed.

She pushed the printed harbor report toward him. “The reference number appears in the ledger, the inspection report, and the record connected to Harbor Trust. My mother's map may have contained the missing connection.”

“Which means whoever stole it knew exactly what they were looking for.”

“Then we find out what the map showed.”

Hollis glanced toward the window.

“The old boathouse.”

Waverly grabbed her coat.

“Finally, a useful suggestion.”

---

The boathouse smelled of salt, wet timber, and rust.

Hollis unlocked the side door with a key he'd found in the inn's maintenance drawer. Inside, overturned fishing crates lay beneath a broken window. Someone had searched the building recently, but not thoroughly enough to hide the fresh scratches on a storage shelf.

Waverly crouched beside it.

“These marks weren't made by the weather.”

Hollis ran his fingers along the underside.

“There's something taped here.”

He pulled free a small, rusted key.

A set of initials had been carved into the shelf above it.

H.M.

Waverly looked at him. “Your initials?”

“I used to spend summers here when I was a kid.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“I haven't been inside this building since my mother died.”

The admission changed the atmosphere between them.

“Why?”

“Because she brought me here the last summer we spent together. She said this harbor was worth protecting, even if the people in charge didn't think so.”

He turned the key over in his palm.

“I thought avoiding the place would make it easier to remember her.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

Waverly understood that answer better than she wanted to.

She had spent years avoiding conversations about her father, convinced that refusing to discuss his abandonment would make it hurt less. It hadn't.

“Maybe this is your chance to stop letting the past decide where you can go,” she said.

Hollis looked at her.

“And what about you?”

“I'm trying to save my home.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

She looked away first.

“We should find out what the key opens.”

---

The storage locker stood behind a row of abandoned fishing equipment at the far end of the boathouse.

The rusted key turned with difficulty.

Inside lay several rolled survey photographs, a sealed envelope, and a small cassette case bearing a handwritten date from twelve years earlier.

Waverly reached for the photographs.

The first showed the coastline before Mercer Coastal proposed its marina development. The second revealed an access road that no longer appeared on modern maps.

The third made her stop breathing For one second.

A vessel sat beside the old harbor warehouse, its white-striped hull visible beneath the morning fog.

“Is that the boat from Sloane's photograph?” Hollis asked.

“Possibly. We need her to compare them.”

Waverly unfolded the sealed envelope.

It contained a single sheet of paper covered with measurements and handwritten notes. Most were difficult to read, but one sentence stood out.

The eastern retaining wall was altered before final approval.

Hollis's expression hardened.

“If that's accurate, the marina plans could be based on falsified surveys.”

“And if the wall was altered deliberately, someone may have risked lives to hide it.”

He picked up the cassette case.

“Let's take these to Sloane.”

A voice interrupted them.

“Put everything back.”

A broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, wearing a dark jacket with Mercer Coastal's security emblem.

Waverly recognized him from the estate grounds.

“Mr. Mercer owns this property,” the guard said. “These records belong to the Mercer estate.”

“Then why are they hidden in a locked storage compartment?” Waverly demanded.

“That's not your concern.”

Hollis stepped forward. “I'm his son. I'm telling you to leave.”

The guard hesitated.

“Mr. Dorian Mercer specifically instructed us to secure this building.”

“Then call him,” Hollis replied. “Ask him why his son is standing here.”

The guard took out his phone.

Waverly understood immediately.

They had seconds.

She slipped the cassette into her coat and rolled one survey photograph beneath her sleeve.

Hollis saw what she was doing but said nothing.

The guard ended the call.

“Mr. Mercer is on his way.”

“Then he'll find the locker exactly as he left it,” Hollis said.

He closed the compartment and turned the key.

They walked out without running.

Only when they reached the road did Waverly release the breath she'd been holding.

“You stole evidence in front of a security guard.”

“I secured evidence,” she corrected.

“That's what people call stealing when they want to sound respectable.”

She laughed despite herself.

Hollis watched her For one second, and his expression softened.

Then a car appeared at the end of the road.

Black SUV.

The same vehicle Waverly had noticed outside the library.

“Get in,” Hollis said.

They hurried into his car just as the SUV turned toward the boathouse.

---

They drove to the inn's rear entrance and carried the exhibits upstairs.

Waverly placed the cassette on the desk.

“Before we listen to this, we make copies of everything.”

Hollis nodded.

“And we tell Sloane where the original records came from.”

“Agreed.”

For the first time since their investigation began, they seemed to be working as partners rather than opponents.

But the cooperation brought its own danger.

Hollis sat beside her, close enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“You know my father won't stop,” he said.

“Neither will I.”

“Even if he destroys your restoration funding?”

The question struck harder than she expected.

Without the promised money, the inn might not survive the winter. Her mother had already sacrificed too much to keep it open.

Waverly looked down at the cassette.

“I can't let fear decide what happens to this place.”

Hollis nodded slowly.

“My mother used to say the same thing.”

“Then maybe she was right.”

For one second, neither spoke.

Waverly became painfully aware of how close they were. She wanted to ask what he had almost said earlier, but the words felt dangerous.

She stood.

“We should call Sloane.”

“Right.”

His voice was quieter now.

They had agreed to keep their partnership practical.

Neither had agreed on how to ignore everything that wasn't.

---

At seven that evening, Waverly's phone rang.

Dorian Mercer.

She answered on speaker, with Hollis listening beside her.

“I'm told you visited the boathouse,” Dorian said.

“We found old records.”

“Records belonging to my family.”

“Then perhaps your family should explain why they were hidden.”

A pause followed.

“You're making a serious mistake, Waverly.”

“No. I'm asking serious questions.”

“You have an inn to save. I have offered you a way to do that. If you continue interfering with my company's operations, the offer will be withdrawn.”

Hollis leaned toward the phone.

“Father, the survey photographs suggest the eastern retaining wall was altered before approval.”

“Do you have proof?”

“We're examining the records.”

“Then examine them carefully. False accusations can ruin reputations.”

“Only if the accusations are false,” Waverly replied.

Dorian's voice turned cold.

“By tomorrow morning, I expect every document taken from the boathouse to be returned.”

The call ended.

Waverly stared at the phone.

“He knows we took something.”

“He probably knows exactly what we took.”

She removed the cassette from her coat and placed it inside a locked drawer.

“We need to hear what's on this.”

Hollis nodded. “Tomorrow. With Sloane present.”

A knock sounded at the office door.

Both of them froze.

A folded envelope had been pushed underneath it.

Waverly opened it.

Inside was a photograph of Hollis as a child, standing beside his mother at the harbor. On the back, someone had written a message in black ink.

YOUR MOTHER KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO ELIAS ROOK. ASK YOUR FATHER WHY SHE NEVER TOLD YOU.

Hollis went pale.

Waverly looked from the photograph to him.

The investigation had just crossed a line neither of them had expected.

Someone wasn't merely trying to stop them from uncovering the truth.

Someone was using Hollis's dead mother to make sure they kept digging.

And tomorrow, they would finally hear what the hidden cassette had to say.