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CHAPTER

ONE

JUNE

I blink twice,my best polite smile starting to slide, much like the sweat dripping down my collarbone. The fan clicks lazily overhead. It doesn’t so much cool the room as simply push the stagnant South Texas air around.

A white silk button-down? In the summer? No deodorant could make this right.

I chose…poorly. Though at this rate, I wouldn’t mind disintegrating à la an Indiana Jones enemy if it meant relief from this heat.

The mere thought of Indiana Jones sends a shockwave of grief cresting through me. It was my dad’s favorite movie franchise. There were so many late Sunday nights spent watching them with him on the couch, but they’ll never be enough.

It’s been three weeks since my dad’s funeral. Three weeks of trying to piece myself back together, only to find everything crashing down around me.

I fan myself, rewarded with puffs of stale air as I try not to cry.

“Dr. Legarde, are you paying attention? You look like my undergrads when I ask if they’ve read the syllabus.” Dr. Weaselton, my boss, snorts at his own joke. As the history and archaeology department chair at our small state university, he holds the future of my research in his hands, and he regards me over horn-rimmed glasses that went out of style three decades ago.

A faint smile stretches my lips at the joke, my throat bobbing as I nod once.

“Yes, sir,” I say, stretching my fingers across the hem of my skirt. “But I fail to understand your reasoning. My research is air-tight, but to continue it, I need assistance. Financially.”

The wooden chair creaks as I try to scooch forward, my thighs glued to the seat.

Dr. Weaselton narrows his eyes at me, and I half-listen as he drones on about budget cuts.

“I understand,” I finally bite out.

I’m not an idiot. I don’t need my hard-earned PhD to understand he isn’t going to sign off on my grant application. That there are other professors that have much less risky research projects. That they need the meager funds just as much as I do, if not more.

Hunting for a long-lost sunken treasure might sound exciting, but the chances of finding it are slim to none, and my colleagues’ chances of finding the texts they need in libraries overseas are much, much stronger.

Awareness prickles the back of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder. Unless the ceramic bust of Herodotus sitting on the bookshelf is staring daggers at me, I’m imagining it. Again.

Still. I can’t shake the feeling someone has been watching me for days. Other than Herodotus, that is. And my father taught me to never ignore my gut.

“Dr. Legarde, I hope you can understand that this isn’t personal, although I know your current focus is personal to you. We were all saddened by your loss, and we do wish you the best.”

A tart reply sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it.

I sigh as my Dr. Weaselton closes the manila folder with my paper application in it, unsigned. Paper, of course, because even kind dinosaurs like Weaselton are nothing if not set in their ways.

“The university simply will not accept the risk of funding such a venture, and our department has other priorities.”

The curt dismissal hurts, and my fragile porcelain façade cracks.

“It’s not a risk.” My eyes sting with stubborn tears as I lean forward. “I know theSantu Espirituis out there; you have all the research and proof anyone could ask for in front of you. I just need the money to continue looking for its final resting place.” My voice grows jagged the more I talk, and I know it’s not helping.

I know, and I can’t stop it.

Years of research, nearly a decade of charting currents over the past four centuries, years’ worth of weekends spent digging through archives, and untold hours splashing down on dives all over the gulf. It had all been fruitless—until I’d stumbled upon docking logs challenging the ship’s assumed departure date, setting it back by a month… and placing it in the Gulf of Mexico during one of the worst hurricanes on record.

“I can go over the data again, if you’d like.” I motion to the closed folder, somehow maintaining a calm, even tone. “I have strong evidence indicating that hurricane in 1554 knocked the ship off course.”

“You went over that source already,” he says shaking his head. “It’s not incontrovertible proof, Dr. Legarde. And I can’t sign off on this. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, if you’ll excuse such a puerile cliché.” His tone is gentle, but the words are a slap in the face.

I wish I could shake him, make him see reason. But shaking him wouldn’t get me the money; he isn’t the stuck vending machine outside my office. So I take a deep breath, my smile sharpening.