Page 6

Paula sighs. "We both went to elementary school with George and Cecilia. We stayed friends into adulthood. After Cecilia's death, George became a recluse. No one saw him, but sometimes, late at night, you could see lights on in the house, hear tools clanging—he was always tinkering with something. He loved building things, always went big for Halloween decorations or the Fourth of July parade floats."

"But then," Dr. Whitfield adds, "the lights stopped. No sounds, nothing. The police did a wellness check but found the place empty. No note, no trace. Instead of losing one friend, we lost two."

I hesitate before asking, "What do you think happened to him?"

Paula speaks first.

“I don’t think anyone knows for sure, but I like to think he simply packed up a few things and left. He may have felt that he needed a fresh start somewhere without Cecilia’s death tainting everything around him” she said.

I nod in agreement before turning to Dr. Whitfield for his theory, but his gaze is drifting, clearly not present.

“Doctor?” I say gently in an effort to draw him back into the conversation. But he remains far away, somewhere else.

I feel awkward now, uncomfortable, like I’ve overstayed my welcome here. I pull the treasure map from my pocket, thank Paula for the experience and consider the Doctor one more time before I turn away. I’m two steps away from the door when Dr. Whitfield touches my shoulder, light but deliberate. His sharp gray eyes flick to the map in my hand, a cold curiosity visible in them. "Where did you get that?”

His newfound intensity puts me off balance and I struggle to form the right words. “Found it in some documents at the house. It's my next mystery."

He stares between me and the map for a moment too long before Paula breaks the silence with a chuckle. "Well, if you find any treasure, be sure to cut us in!"

I laugh, pleased to be exiting the odd exchange. I thank them both again, and head out into the sun. The map feels like electricity in my hands. Wherever it’s leading me to, I’m getting closer. I can feel it.

5

The Florida sun is unrelenting, its golden rays baking the streets of Mount Dora as I follow the map's directions toward the lake. The humidity clings to my skin, thick and suffocating, turning even the simplest movements into a slow, sticky effort. My grip tightens around the crinkled map, its edges soft from handling. I walk past the quirky charm of Mount Dora's streets, where pastel-colored homes and swaying palm trees stand in contrast to the mystery I'm chasing.

I enjoy my stroll through the beautiful, historic town. Charming shops like this no longer exist in big cities; it makes me happy that Amazon has yet to claim this slice of paradise from the world.

I pass by a curious little trinket shop, screaming for attention. Its large display window is crammed with a strange but cheerful collection—potted plants, baskets of fruit, gardening tools, and a spinning wire rack filled with bingo cards and dabbers. Glossy magazines featuring strong, shirtless men, shelves stacked with books, and a row of colorful watering cans catch my eye. Tucked between them are old camera antiques and framed photographs—JFK in Dallas, a serene beach at sunset, and a black-and-white photo of Mount Dora's town square.

A wooden sign swings above the entrance, painted in bright, playful letters:Frankie's Favorites.

I step inside, the soft chime of the door announcing my arrival. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers and old paper. Shelves lined with snacks, drinks, and an impressive collection of antiques stretch along the walls. Among them, I spot a sturdy metal bingo roller and a set of old metal reusable punched bingo cards. A goofy sign hangs nearby, depicting a burly cartoon bouncer with the words"Bingo or Bounce!"and a thumb pointed to the exit. Against the far wall stands an old Coca-Cola dispenser, its red paint faded but still gleaming under the store's warm lighting. The blend of vintage and eccentricity makes me grin.

Behind the counter stands an older woman with charming glasses, long black hair, and a bright yellow apron covered in embroidered flowers. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and eyes me with a playful sparkle.

"Hi there, I'm curious—what kind of store is this, exactly?" I ask, unable to hide my smile.

She grins, then gestures dramatically toward the sign outside. "This, sweetheart, isFrankie's Favorites.Everything you see here is something I love. I'm Francesca Jeann Pruitt, but everyone calls me Frankie." She winks. "I love gardening. I love reading. I love bingo. I love history. I love strong, half-nude men. Oh, and I love eating." She pats the countertop. "So, voilà, I made Frankie's Favorites."

I chuckle, wandering through the aisles. I grab a cold bottle of water from a vintage cooler and a packet of sunflower seeds—something bright and cheerful. Then, my eyes land on a sturdy garden trowel on a nearby shelf. I glance down at my own hands, and the realization hits—even if I actually find the location of the X on the map, I have nothing to dig with! Feeling sheepish but incredibly lucky, I pick up the garden trowel.

As I approach the counter, Frankie eyes my selection approvingly. "Good choices. Nothing like a little digging to uncover life's best surprises."

I laugh, handing her the cash. "I have a feeling you're right."

With my purchases in hand, I step back into the Florida sun, Frankie's quirky charm lingering with me as I continue toward the docks.

As I approach the shoreline, the wind blows my hair in every direction. A foldable sign sits halfway down the dock, its paint chipped but bold: "Rusty Anchor Boat Tours—Explore Mount Dora's Beautiful Waters!" Beneath it, the board lists various tours:Sunset Cruise: $40, Private Lake Tour: $60, Wildlife Adventure: $50.

A man stands on the dock, squinting out over the lake, a faded baseball cap shading his face. He appears right at home with tanned skin and broad shoulders. I clear my throat.

"Hi there! I'm looking for Donald?" I ask.

He turns, his face crinkling into a smile before spitting into a stale-looking coffee cup. "That's me—your fourth-generation Native Floridian boat guide. But you can just call me Donny. You looking for a ride?"

I pull the map from my pocket and unfold it, smoothing it out in front of him. "I'm hoping you can take me here," pointing to the X.

Donny leans over the map, his brow furrowing. "Interesting. This doesn't look like any of my usual tour spots. What's out there?"