Page 68 of All Along The Watchtower

“Is Bree okay?” But I already knew the answer. I’d seen her face when Mr. Ed fell. Like her whole world was crashing down.

“Your father’s with her. That’s what matters right now.”

I nodded, picking up the hot chocolate. “Mr. Ed was showing me all these old maps. We were going to...” My voice caught. “He promised to take me treasure hunting when we figured out the right spot.”

Keeley pushed her head into my lap, and I buried my fingers in her fur.

“I barely know him, but he was so nice to me. Like I belonged here.”

Mimi squeezed my shoulder. “That’s Ed. He’s got a way of making people feel like they’ve always been part of the family.”

“Is he gonna die?” The question burst out before I could stop it.

“Oh, honey.” Mimi pulled me into a hug. “They’re doing everything they can.”

She really did give the best hugs. I tried not to cry, but tears slipped down my cheeks, anyway. It wasn’t fair. I’d just found my dad, just started making friends here. Mr. Ed couldn’t die. Bree couldn’t lose him.

I sniffed. “I should be there.”

Grandma Flo stepped into the doorway. “Your dad wanted you safe here with us, and the doctors are limiting Ed’s exposure to other people right now. The best thing we can do is wait.”

I needed to keep busy. Knuckling the tears away, I shut my algebra book. “I think I’m gonna try working on my history paper.”

Mimi smiled and stroked a hand down my hair. “Okay. We’ll leave you to it. We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Once they’d gone, I pulled out Ed’s notes. I’d grabbed them from the booth at the Brewhouse after the ambulance had takenhim away. I knew he wouldn’t have wanted them getting into the wrong hands. Or worse, thrown away.

I skimmed through the pages. His handwriting was a cramped sort of cursive that wasn’t especially neat. Not that I could say a thing. Mom had called my own handwriting chicken scratch. Like it was my fault they’d taken cursive out of the school curriculum? I’d seen most of this before, as he’d kept me up to date on what he was doing, what lines he was tugging. But I found a page labeled “Contributing Artists” with a list of names. For a moment, I sat stumped. Then I remembered that Peter had told us that they’d been trying an experimental program where local artists made the maps for the gift shop. It made sense that, if there was an irregularity, we could ask the original artist about it.

I wondered how far he’d gotten. There were no further notations about it. If they were local artists, chances were Mimi knew them. Or at least knew of them. I could ask her about all the names on the list. But first I wanted to do a little internet sleuthing myself. Snagging my laptop, I opened a browser.

I typed in the first name from the list: “Marcus Delaney.” The search results loaded, showing a few LinkedIn profiles and social media accounts, but nothing local. One Marcus Delaney was an accountant in Chicago, another taught high school in California, and a third sold real estate in Florida. None of them seemed connected to Hatterwick Island or map-making.

“Well, that’s useless,” I muttered. Keeley thumped her tail in response.

I refined my search, adding “Hatterwick Island” to the name. This time, the results were even more sparse—just a couple of random blog mentions that had nothing to do with art or maps.

Scrolling down, I noticed a Facebook post from the Hatterwick Island Community Center. It was from last October, advertising a local art show featuring “island talent.” I clickedthrough and found a grainy photo of a gallery wall with various paintings and crafts. The caption listed several artists, including Marcus Delaney.

“Got you” I leaned closer to the screen.

The post didn’t have much information. Just the dates of the show and a generic “thanks to all who participated” message. I clicked through to the Community Center’s page, hoping for more details, but there was nothing else about Marcus or his work.

I went back to Ed’s list and moved on to the second name: “Tessa Blackwood.”

Keeley whined and nudged my hand with her nose.

“I know, I know. I should be doing my history paper.” I scratched her ears. “But this feels important, girl. Mr. Ed was onto something, and I want to figure it out for him.”

I typed in Tessa Blackwood’s name and waited for the results to load, hoping this search would be more productive than the last one. Her name appeared in several local art show listings, and I found a link to the Outer Banks Summer Art Festival from last July. The event’s Facebook page had albums full of photos showcasing artists and their work.

I clicked through to the gallery, scrolling past images of pottery displays, watercolor paintings, and woven baskets. Each photo had detailed captions listing the artists present. Some were candid shots of people mingling, others showed artists standing proudly beside their creations. I continued scrolling, scanning each image carefully. There were so many photos—the festival had apparently been a three-day event with dozens of participants.

About halfway through the album, my finger froze mid-scroll. My heart lurched into my throat.

“No way.”

I leaned closer to the screen, studying the couple who’d been captured in candid. The guy was clean-shaven here, but it was definitely the same creepy dude I’d seen on the ferry and after. And the woman he was with here was the same one I’d seen him arguing with at school. I hadn’t seen either of them since, and I’d just counted myself lucky, given everything else that was going on. But maybe that was actually weird, given how small the island really was.

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