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When I got back home, I was surprised to see Rita’s car in the lot, given that the store was closed.

I came in through the back and found Rita standing behind the counter.

“You get your butt over here, young lady,”

she said as soon as she saw me.

She stepped out and hurried toward me lest I try to ignore her command.

When she got to me, she took hold of one of my arms and eyed my head with curiosity and worry.

“Flatfoot Flanders called and said you got tossed from a boat.”

“Yeah, something from below hit my rental, tipping it enough that I was thrown out.”

“What’s all this about?”

she said, releasing her grip on my arm and making a circular motion around my head with her finger.

“Are you trying to become a redhead?”

I reached up and gingerly touched the spot where the staples were.

The numbing medication had worn off completely and my scalp was throbbing.

“Not sure what I hit, but I hit it hard,”

I told her with a meager smile.

“I’ve got staples up there.”

“First, Devon, now you,”

Rita grumbled.

“This had better not be the start of a trend.

I don’t need a crack on my head.”

“I don’t think anything could penetrate that thick hair of yours,”

I told her.

“That bun is like a shield of armor.”

Rita seemed to like that.

She smiled and tucked one of the ever-present errant strands up into that huge mess of a bun.

I wondered if she ever took it down or if she washed it that way.

It had a definite look of permanence to it.

I reached back with one hand and massaged my neck, which was currently throbbing as much as, if not more than, my head.

Now that I knew I was safe and at home, I felt overcome with fatigue.

“As much fun as this hardheadedness discussion is, I need to shower,”

I said.

“And then I could use some rest.

I’m exhausted.”

“Of course,”

Rita said, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me around to face the stairs to my apartment.

She gave me a little push in the right direction.

“Devon and I will be here in the morning to open back up.

You sleep as long as you like.”

I cast a grateful smile at her over one shoulder and then dutifully went upstairs, Newt at my heels.

I still felt chilled to the bone, and I stood beneath the hot spray of my shower until the water turned cool, basking in the heat of it.

When I was done, I donned some yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a fluffy robe.

Feeling somewhat rejuvenated, I settled in on my wide, comfortable couch, intending to look through some more of the articles and papers I’d pulled from my parents’ files the other day.

It didn’t take long for my eyelids to grow heavy, and I set aside the paper I was reading and curled up into a ball, closing my eyes.

The next thing I knew, someone was knocking on my door.

I sat up and saw that it was dark outside.

“Who is it?”

I hollered, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“It’s Rita.

I know I said we wouldn’t bother you, but I got a call from that copper fellow Flatfoot Flanders, and he insists he needs to speak to you.

He said he tried your cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail, and then he realized you probably lost your phone in the boating incident.”

He was right about that.

Most likely my cell phone was sitting on the bottom of Lake Michigan.

I made a mental note to get a replacement as soon as possible.

“Are you okay, Morgan?”

“I’m fine.”

This was a bit of a lie.

My head felt foggy, and I had to pee something fierce.

“I’m sorry you had to come here, Rita.

I need to go to the bathroom and then I’ll come down and call him back on the store landline.

Thanks so much for coming all the way out here.”

I hoped my comments had sounded final without being rude.

The last thing I needed right now was Rita asking me a bunch of questions.

Much as I adored the woman, she could be trying at times.

But I didn’t want to alienate her either, especially not after the kindness she’d shown me that day.

After trying to shake off the fog in my head, I went to the toilet and emptied my bladder while Newt sat and watched, making me wonder idly why it is that dogs feel the need to accompany us to the bathroom.

Is it because we’re so often present when they do their business? Feeling a little better after that meager act, I went downstairs to the store.

Rita was nowhere in sight, and while I breathed a sigh of relief, I also experienced a twinge of guilt.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was nearly nine thirty.

I dug Jon’s business card out of my desk drawer and was about to dial when the phone rang, making me jump.

I grabbed the handset and said, “Hello?”

Jon’s voice, soft and concerned, said, “Hey, Morgan, Rita said you were going to use the store landline, so I thought I’d call it.

Sorry to bother you but I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

That was it? I got dragged out of my pleasant, dreamless slumber and came downstairs to the store for that?

“That’s sweet of you,”

I said, immediately wishing I could take it back and reword it to something a little less .

.

.

oogy.

“I’m fine,”

I added quickly.

“You need to get a new cell phone,”

he said.

“Is there a better number where I can reach you in the meantime?”

“The store line is it for now.”

“Okay.”

He sounded disappointed.

“I have an update for you.”

I hoped it would be good news, maybe even news about Marty.

But it was neither.

“I went out to the marina and examined that boat you rented myself.

It’s in dry dock now, so I was able to get a good look at the damage to the underside.

I don’t know what it was that hit you, but it transferred gray paint onto the boat.”

“Paint?”

“Yep.

Most likely gray marine paint.

I’m going to send a sample to the lab to have it analyzed.

Should have a definitive answer in a day or two.”

“Are you sure the paint wasn’t there beforehand?”

“I asked the shop owners.

Turns out, that boat is their newest one, and they swear it was pristine when they got it.

The only people who used it before you were the shop owners themselves.”

“Interesting.”

I considered this.

What kind of creature leaves behind paint marks? Easy answer: none.

Whatever I’d encountered out there, it hadn’t been a living creature, at least not on the outside.

It had to have been a submersible of some kind and I said as much to Jon.

“I agree.

I’ll see what I can find out about equipment like that being used in the area.”

“Jon, were there any paint marks similar to this on Marty’s boat?”

“Sorry, no,” he said.

“Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there’s any news on that front?”

“Sorry, no,”

he said again.

Silence filled the air between us until I felt compelled to say something.

“Does the police department have a dive team?”

“We have divers that we can call on. Why?”

“I’m not sure yet.

I’ll let you know.”

“Morgan, is there someone who can stay with you tonight to make sure you’re okay? You whacked your head pretty hard.”

“I’m fine.”

After a pregnant pause, he said, “I can come and stay the night if you want.

I can boat over to Sister Bay.

I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“It’s kind of you to offer but I’m really fine.

The doctor did a thorough neurological exam on me.

I’m just tired.

And I’m not alone.

I have Newt and Henry.”

“Henry?”

I waited a beat, knowing he’d get there.

“Oh, right.

Henry.

Very funny.”

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said.

“Okay, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.

Anytime, day or night, got it?”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Good night, Morgan.”

“Good night, Jon.”

Despite feeling tired, I was too jazzed now to go back to sleep.

Instead, I went upstairs to the apartment, got on my laptop, and ordered another remote-controlled, motorized underwater camera.

Then I started researching Napoleon’s rumored gold.

I found all manner of speculative posts on some dodgy websites, but there were a few that made sense and got me to thinking.

One suggested that Napoleon’s gold had been dumped near Poverty Island as the rumors had said, but then the chain connecting the trunks had been snagged by a ship’s anchor during a storm and the entire mess had been dragged to a new location.

But the area where Oliver had been looking, according to Sadie, was miles from Poverty Island. Could something as heavy as chests full of gold have been dragged that far by an anchor? Maybe in a fierce storm like the infamous one of 1913?

Then I found several stories that said the gold was in a boxcar on the lake bottom rather than in wooden chests.

One historian claimed the gold wasn’t even in Lake Michigan, but rather in Lake Erie.

My brain was too muddled to sort it all out and I eventually set the laptop aside and went into my bedroom to get ready for bed.

When I opened my pajama drawer, I saw the pictures I’d taken from Oliver’s storage unit.

I’d forgotten about them.

I sat down on the bed and started sifting through them.

Most were scenic shots of coastlines and landmasses, presumably taken from where Oliver had kayaked, and I recognized that most of the shots were in the general area I’d been in earlier.

Then I came across some photos that were taken underwater, most likely with one of those specialized disposable cameras you can buy in drugstores, gift shops, and tourist meccas.

I looked through the photos carefully, examining the underwater shapes and the occasional fish.

And then I came to a photo that showed a structure of some sort, much of it covered with plant growth.

On that structure, faded with time and erosion but still legible thanks to the cold freshwater depths of the lake, I could just make out the remnants of the first three letters in a word: a P, an L, and a Y.

My heart pounded with excitement.

Oliver had found the SS Plymouth! It had to be that ship.

If the location of the Plymouth according to the seaman’s diary was true, might not his tale about the sighting of the gold also be true? Had Oliver not only found the wreck of a ship that had been missing for over a hundred years but also the legendary gold stash that Napoleon had sent to help the South? And had he died as a result?

I thought about calling Jon back to tell him what I’d discovered, but then I looked at my watch, saw that it was one in the morning, and decided it could wait.

Besides, I was going to have to confess to copping the envelope of pictures and keeping it from him, and I was in no rush to do that.