Midnight hung heavy over Pier 17, a vast canvas of shadows and industrial silence. The lone night watchman, a figure hunched over a thermos, seemed lost in his own world. Nora, a fake press pass clipped to her jacket, approached him with a practiced smile, her voice carrying just enough to distract.
“Just gathering some background shots for a human interest piece,” she explained, gesturing vaguely with her camera. “The old ships, they just tell such a story, don’t they?”
While the watchman, charmed and slightly bewildered, pointed her towards the more photogenic vessels, I slipped through the chain-link fence, a phantom in the deep shadows. The air was frigid, carrying the briny scent of the sea and damp, rusting metal.
*The Sea Sentinel* sat hunched against the timber pilings, a behemoth of faded green paint and corroded steel. Its deck was dark, its windows like vacant eyes. I climbed the icy gangway, each creak of the aging metal a terrifyingly loud report in the quiet night.
Inside, the engine room was a labyrinth of pipes and defunct machinery. My phone’s flashlight beam cut a narrow path through the oppressive darkness, illuminating thick layers of dust and cobwebs. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of old oil and decay.
Finally, I found it: Arthur’s private captain’s cabin, tucked away at the stern. A single, framed nautical chart hung on the steel bulkhead, yellowed with age. Behind it, almost perfectly camouflaged, was a heavy brass padlock. Its surface was dull, but the contours were unmistakable. It was the twin to the key Lawson had slipped me. My hand trembled as I inserted the key, the cold metal a stark contrast to my racing pulse.
A soft click echoed in the tiny cabin.
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