Chapter 13 - The Girl in the Red Coat
I was nine years old when the photograph was taken.
I remembered almost nothing about the day.
Patricia remembered everything.
She sat across from Ethan and me inside a secure conference room at Cross Industries headquarters in Boston, clutching a paper cup of coffee with both hands.
The woman before me no longer resembled the society matriarch who once measured human beings by jewelry and last names.
Her hair had gone mostly gray.
Her sweater came from an ordinary department store.
Her hands shook.
“They destroyed my apartment,” she said.
“Did anyone follow you?” Ethan asked.
“No. Marcus brought me through the underground garage.”
“Good.”
I placed a digital copy of the photograph between us.
Marcus had recovered it from an old cloud backup belonging to Robert’s former law firm.
Nine-year-old me stood beside a weathered lighthouse wearing a bright red winter coat.
My grandmother Eleanor had one hand resting on my shoulder.
Behind us, gray waves crashed against black rocks.
Patricia stared at the image.
“That was Christmas Harbor.”
“Where?”
“Maine.”
“Why were we there?”
“Your grandmother rented a cottage every February.”
I remembered pieces.
Hot chocolate.
Wet mittens.
The smell of wood smoke.
A small attic room where I slept beneath quilts.
“What did I write on the back?”
Patricia frowned.
“You used to write little stories on everything.”
“Think.”
She closed her eyes.
“I remember Robert becoming furious about that photograph.”
“Why?”
“He couldn’t find it for several days.”
Ethan and I exchanged a glance.
“Then what?”
“You told him Grandma had put it into her special book.”
“What book?”
Patricia stared at me.
“Treasure Island.”
I almost laughed.
“My grandmother owned a copy?”
“She loved adventure stories.”
Something stirred in my memory.
A green clothbound book.
Gold letters.
A map printed inside the cover.
I suddenly heard my grandmother’s voice.
Every treasure needs two maps, Merry.
One for fools.
One for the person meant to find it.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“I remember.”
Ethan rose.
“What?”
“My grandmother taught me a code.”
Patricia stared at me.
“What code?”
“She called it pirate writing.”
I grabbed a legal pad.
“When I was little, Grandma and I replaced letters with numbers based on page coordinates. Page, paragraph, word.”
Ethan understood immediately.
“The writing on the photograph wasn’t a message.”
“It was coordinates.”
“To what?”
“The book.”
Patricia covered her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
I turned toward her.
“Where is Grandmother’s copy of Treasure Island?”
She looked terrified.
“I gave her books away.”
“When?”
“After she died.”
“To whom?”
“A library fundraiser in Marblehead.”
Ethan was already calling Marcus.
“Trace every item from the Eleanor Campbell estate donation. Priority one.”
Marcus answered something.
Ethan listened.
Then his eyes lifted toward mine.
“They have records.”
“How many books?”
“Two hundred seventeen.”
“Can they identify buyers?”
“Some.”
We drove to Marblehead without sirens.
The old historical society occupied a converted brick schoolhouse overlooking the harbor.
Its director, Martha Keene, met us in the archive room carrying a cardboard ledger.
“I remember Eleanor’s donation,” she said. “Beautiful collection.”
“Do you remember Treasure Island?”
Martha smiled.
“Yes. Nineteenth-century edition. Green cloth binding.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Where is it?”
Her smile disappeared.
“It was never sold.”
Ethan leaned forward.
“Why?”
“Because someone withdrew it before the auction.”
“Who?”
Martha flipped through the ledger.
“Robert Campbell.”
I stared at the page.
Date withdrawn: March 14.
Fifteen years earlier.
Three days after the Pier Forty-Seven fire.
“He took it back,” I whispered.
Martha shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He signed the release, but according to this note, he instructed us to place it inside another donation.”
“Which one?”
Martha adjusted her glasses.
“The children’s maritime reading room.”
My skin prickled.
“Where?”
She pointed through the archive window toward the harbor.
“The old lighthouse museum.”
The same lighthouse from the photograph.
We reached it at sunset.
Federal agents secured the perimeter while Ethan and I climbed the narrow spiral stairs.
The reading room occupied the keeper’s former quarters.
Dust floated through amber light.
Shelves lined the walls.
I ran my fingers across hundreds of old books.
Then I saw green cloth.
Treasure Island.
My hands trembled.
I opened the cover.
My grandmother’s handwriting remained inside.
To Meredith—never let anyone convince you that courage belongs only to loud people.
Tears burned my eyes.
Ethan touched my shoulder.
I turned pages carefully.
Page forty-seven.
Paragraph three.
Word eleven.
Then page ninety-four.
Paragraph two.
Word six.
I decoded the coordinates from memory.
NORTH.
FIFTH.
STONE.
BELOW.
Ethan frowned.
“North fifth stone?”
My eyes lifted toward the lighthouse wall.
Five granite foundation stones lined the northern window.
We moved together.
The fifth stone had a narrow iron seam.
Ethan pulled.
Nothing.
I remembered something else.
“Grandma always said the smallest hands find the best treasure.”
I reached into the gap.
My fingertips touched metal.
I pulled out a rusted brass key.
On its tag were two words.
May you like
HARBOR CROWN.
Then a gunshot exploded downstairs.
