HE REST OF that afternoon was a blur.

Interviews. Statements. We told our story over and over, then told it over again. Hours later, I’d had enough.

A director of the Charleston Museum arrived to collect the stolen treasure map. The squirrel went apoplectic when he spotted my writing on the back, was only partially mollified to learn my note was a record of Bonny’s cryptic poem.

Threats were voiced, but in the end he decided not to press charges. With two of his curators murdered, our larceny was low on his list of concerns.

A call was made to the Exchange Building, and an inspector was sent to the Provost Dungeon. Once Bonny’s bolt-hole was discovered, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

Dubious cops became fascinated listeners. Their stern frowns at our multiple petty crimes morphed into grins at our moxie.

Then Kit arrived.

“Tory!” Wrapping me in a fierce hug. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“What’ve you heard?” Testing the waters.

“Nothing! I received a message saying you were at police headquarters downtown. That’s it.”

“Right. Kit, I uh … have some things to tell you.” I swallowed. “You’re not going to like it.”

His face fell. “Are you in trouble?”

“Actually, I don’t think so.”

“Then why are you here? Did you break the law?”

“Yes. Quite a few.” I held up a hand. “But for a good cause!”

Kit’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But you’ve been grounded all week.”

“Yeah. About that. A few days ago the boys and I stole a treasure map from the Charleston Museum. It led to tunnels beneath the Provost Dungeon, so we snuck out Friday night, broke in, and explored them.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The tunnels run under East Bay, all the way to the Battery. We found Anne Bonny’s original hiding place, but the treasure had been moved. Then someone following us opened fire and we escaped by swimming into the bay.”

Kit dropped to the bench beside me. “We had breakfast. You said you were bored.”

“The pirates had left a poem as a clue,” I continued in a rush. “I called Aunt Tempe because she knows Gaelic, and then we needed Chance Claybourne because his father had purchased Anne Bonny’s cross. We snuck him out of his mental hospital, and he helped us figure out the treasure’s new location. Bull Island.”

“Tempe? Chance Claybourne? Bull Island?”

“Yes, we went there late last night. Kit, the clues were right! We dug up a treasure chest! But then the shooters showed up again—these whackadoo married curators named the Fletchers—and we got into a scrap. We managed to knock them out and escape, but the chest was empty.”

Kit’s hands floated to his face. “And?”

“I suspected the treasure might’ve been moved again, and things pointed to Dewees Island, so we went there this morning. Before leaving we heard the Fletchers had been killed in a car wreck, which we thought was suspicious. When we got to Dewees Dr. Short attacked us. He’s a document expert. He’d teamed up with the Bates brothers, these thugs who work for a pawnshop guy in North Charleston. It turns out we were right—they’d killed the Fletchers! Anyway, we managed to disarm the three of them and get help. Sergeant Corcoran arrested everyone, only he’s not a cop anymore.”

Kit winced. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not on our side. Oh, I borrowed your 4Runner a few times. Sorry.”

Kit got to his feet and strode to the duty desk. “Is my daughter being held for any reason?”

“No sir.”

“Then I’m taking her home.” Kit signed my release forms and fumbled for his keys, then spoke to me without turning. “Car. Now. No more talking.”

I moved as quickly and quietly as possible, pleased that Kit hadn’t asked if we’d found anything.

We’d fooled the police. I didn’t want to lie to him, too.

“I’m taking out the trash,” I called.

“Try not to commit any felonies,” Kit replied.

“Very funny.”

It was the following morning. I’d spent all night telling Kit what happened, down to the minutest detail. He’d taken special interest in how I’d deceived him. Mental notes?

The only thing I’d held back was our powers.

And what we’d found.

In the end, Kit had posed just one question. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to move.” Tears streamed my cheeks. “I’ll do anything to keep my only friends.”

The mood had been more pleasant after that. Kit decided that I’d committed so many fouls—been so irresponsible and reckless—that it was pointless to punish me.

“What you did is incredible, Tory. You’re a remarkable girl.” Then he’d leaned forward, face tight with concern. “But you risked your life. Nothing is worth that. Not a job, not a place, not a treasure. I’m going to trust you to use better judgment in the future.”

“I will, Kit. I promise.”

I walked to the Dumpster and tossed our rubbish. When I turned, Rodney Brincefield was standing two feet from me.

I jumped backward, mouth open, scream at the ready.

“Hold on!” Brincefield raised both palms. “I come in peace!”

“How did you find me?” I glanced around. No one else in sight.

“I’ll admit I did some sneaking, but I mean you no harm. I’ve lived in this city a long time, and have a few friends on the force. One told me you located my brother’s body.”

There was longing in Brincefield’s eyes. Pain.

“Yes,” I said gently. “We found Jonathan in a tunnel beneath East Bay.” I hesitated. “He’d been killed by a booby trap. I’m very sorry.”

“So he’d gotten close.” Though Brincefield smiled, his eyes were glassy. “That’s something, I guess.”

“He was carrying a stone artifact,” I said. “We used it to reach the final chamber. We’d have failed without your brother.”

“Was it there? The treasure?”

I shook my head. “It had been moved. Later we found a chest, but it was empty. Bonny’s legend was a fraud.”

Brincefield’s face seemed to crumple in on itself. I could practically read his thoughts. His brother had died for nothing.

Maybe it was unwise, but I couldn’t resist. This Bonny-obsessed old man needed closure.

“We did find something,” I whispered. “In another place. We’ve kept it secret from everyone.”

“Thank goodness! Tell me.”

“It’s not much, just a bag of gold coins and some old religious drawings.” My tone reflected my disappointment. “I think Bonny removed most of her loot when the chest was relocated to Dewees.”

Brincefield stilled a moment, then danced a jig, moving nimbly for such a fossil.

I stared at his performance, totally confused.

“Tory, you don’t understand! The drawings are the treasure!”

“Come again?”

“Jonathan researched Anne Bonny and Calico Jack for years. Collected letters, reports, whatever he could find. He shared his discoveries with the only person who’d listen. His little brother. Me.” Brincefield was beaming. “Jonathan knew.”

“Knew what?”

“After Jonathan disappeared, I became as obsessed as he’d been. Finding the treasure ate at me.” Brincefield’s eyes grew distant. “In the end, I had to choose between the quest and my sanity. So, two years ago, I sold Jonathan’s collection. For a measly twenty dollars.”

The letters! That’s how Bates acquired them.

“Our chat at the yacht club triggered the old itch,” he went on. “I even tried to buy back Jonathan’s papers. That’s when I learned that a group of teenagers purchased the collection the day before. I knew instantly who led them.”

His look became sheepish. “I sorta kept tabs on you after that.”

My arms folded. “The ghost tour. Brunch at the country club.”

Brincefield nodded. “Sorry.”

“Accepted. Now what did Jonathan know about the treasure?”

The gleam returned to his eyes. “In 1718, Calico Jack captured a Spanish galleon sailing from Cadiz. The ship carried a wealthy Spaniard named Miguel de Fernan Ortega. Ortega was traveling to the New World to assume the governorship of Maracaibo.”

“Okay.” Still lost. “Why does that matter?”

“Because of what he had in his luggage!” Brincefield’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Ortega was a known collector of antiquities. Just before disembarking, he’d publicly boasted of a recent acquisition.”

I saw where the story was going. “Jack and his crew stole it.”

“Exactly. When the British captured Calico’s Jack’s ship—”

“The Revenge.”

“—they inventoried the hold.”

Brincefield held up a single finger. “One item was notably absent.”

“The papers we found?”

“Yes! Jonathan burned the king’s official report to keep his discovery secret, always believing that Anne Bonny took the document for herself.”

“So the pages have value?”

Brincefield’s grin stretched wider than the Mississippi. “Of course.”

“And you’re going to tell me?” I coaxed.

“Yes.” The old man’s face grew solemn. “You found my brother. Soon I’ll be able to lay him to rest. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you.”

I waited.

“Research the Abbey of Kells.” Brincefield winked. “You’ll find it worth your while.”