I found her first. A ghost ship nobody’s seen in two hundred and forty years, sitting in ninety feet of Florida water with my name on nothing.
Then somebody stole my survey data and sold it, and by Tuesday morning a company with a Delaware address and a lawyer in linen owned my discovery.
So I called Arizona. I asked for muscle and money and legal weight.
They sent me a man.
Torren Vale doesn’t talk. He fixes things without being asked, he takes up half my wheelhouse, and he hasn’t told me why he goes still every time I say the word ninety.
I’ve got two boats, forty-one thousand dollars of debt, and a crew of two — and one of them is lying to me.
He’s the only diver who can get me down there.
But what’s waiting on that seabed will cost us both far more than the wreck is worth.
