The Sky Beneath Her(83)

I thought back to how I’d gotten the job. A recruiter from the firm had found me working in a coffee shop and had given me her card. She’d said the practice was looking for bright interns. I’d thought it was a con. But Dave had encouraged me to take the appointment. They’d hired me on the spot.

“His great-nephew sent me back down here to clean out his house.”

“Maybe it was Dr. Brooks’s way of telling you the truth.”

His expression softened.

The sea glass and coin felt cool against the hollow of my neck. I’d never questioned why she’d given me money for a gift that day. But now, I realized she was trying to keep me away from Dr. Brooks and Mr. Green while they talked. She’d vanished the next day.

I opened my phone and pulled up the picture I’d taken of Mom and me that last day. She was wearing her dive suit, but there was no sign of the necklace. I’d assumed it was tucked inside the suit. She’d already left it behind.

“She wasn’t perfect,” he said. “None of us are. But she wanted the best for you. In her way, she tried to provide it for you.”





Chapter Thirty-Four


Tula





Tuesday, June 16, 2026, 3:30 p.m.


The sun was high in the sky as I drove north to the flattop house. Heavy traffic slowed the trip, and when I pulled into the driveway, I was exhausted.

Tomorrow the auctioneer would arrive, and we’d discuss the sale of Dr. Brooks’s furniture. Unraveling the house’s story had led me to my mother’s truth. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”

The question was becoming as repetitive as it was annoying. I unlocked the front door, flipped on the light, and stepped into the living room that now smelled faintly of pine cleaner.

I made my way back to the office and grabbed a box of files and sifted through the papers. Maybe Dr. Brooks had a few more answers for me about Mom.

This box was filled with articles about more shipwrecks off the Outer Banks. I’d never met Dr. Brooks, but I’d heard over and over that he was precise and careful. And yet he’d saved maritime articles that dated back decades. If he was the Dr. Brooks in the manuscript, I could only suppose surviving the Oceanus’ wreck had connected him not only to my great-grandmother but also to anyone else who’d endured a sinking ship.

It took three hours before I’d sifted through all the old papers and shredded them. Several times the machine jammed with too much paper. I dragged the bags of chopped-up paper out to the recycling bin.

“Was this job another way to take care of me?” I asked.

I grabbed a broom and swept out the office. I hauled the desk to the side and pulled up the small area rug. Dust kicked up, and I was coughing when I noticed what looked like the seam of a small door in the floor. I set the broom aside, knelt down, and rapped my knuckles against the floor. The space underneath sounded hollow. Was this a door? I pushed on it, and when it didn’t budge, I stomped on it. It creaked.

From the kitchen I found a dull old butter knife and returned to the office. I ran the edge along the joint, digging out what looked like years’ worth of dirt. The floorboard began to loosen. I tunneled deeper until the edges had freed.

I pried open the wood until I could get my fingers under one end. When the lid popped off, I set it aside. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight and searched the space.

Inside was a small box. Feeling a bit like Pandora, I remembered all my mother’s cautions about finding trouble in the past. Was it best to leave history alone?

Maybe.

Carefully, I opened the lid.

Inside were old documents: passports, travel visas, and maps. There was also a set of tarot cards bound with twine that reminded me of the ones Dr. Brooks had used to entertain the Oceanus passengers.

The cards were well worn and had a slight greasy feel, as if they’d been handled countless times.

I shifted my focus to the documents. The four passports were from four different countries: the United States, Great Britain, France, and Austria. The credentials dated back to the 1930s, and they all had stamps from dozens of countries. However, the black-and-white identity photos were all of a younger version of Dr. Brooks.

The ordinary man who was easily overlooked and could blend in with anyone had traveled under multiple identities. “Dr. Brooks, you were a spy.”

I searched the entire opening. I was about to declare it empty when I felt a small envelope tucked in the corner. I immediately recognized my mother’s handwriting. The letter had been posted from Greece two months before we’d returned to the States.

My heartbeat pulsed in my head as I shut off the flashlight on my phone. I removed the letter from the envelope. Mom’s handwriting, which had always been so precise and clear, looked shaky. I blinked back tears. As I read the letter, I grew sadder and angrier.

I texted Nathan.

Me: Can I come over? Interesting find at the flattop house.

Nathan: What?

Me: I need to show you.

Nathan: I’ll be home in an hour.



I arrived at Nathan’s rented condo forty-five minutes later and was relieved to see his truck was already parked out front. I hurried to his unit and knocked on the door.

Footsteps sounded, and seconds later the door opened to Nathan. His hair was wet and slicked back, and the soft scent of fresh soap drifted around him. His gaze skimmed over me. Appreciation flashed as quickly as it vanished.