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“Yes, but we found something else.”

Marquez unlocks the case.

Inside, Grandpa’s silver watch rests in a clear evidence container.

Beside it lies a tiny strip of paper sealed in another bag.

“The paper was folded behind the glass,” Marquez says.

Keating leans closer. “What does it say?”

Marquez turns the bag over.

Three words are written in Grandpa’s handwriting.

TRUST THE COOK.

Willow goes silent.

Mom lifts her head.

“Dad knew Willow was a chef?”

“She cooked with him all the time,” I say. “Even when she was little.”

Thomas shakes his head. “James never called Willow the cook.”

“Then who did he mean?” Ben asks.

Thomas grips his cane.

“There was a cook at Blackwater.”

Everyone looks at him.

“You said the facility had been abandoned,” Keating says.

“It was, officially. But Pacific Maritime hired a caretaker crew whenever salvage vessels came through. One man prepared meals for them and recorded every arrival.”

“What was his name?” Marquez asks.

“Arthur Bell.”

Nathan searches his phone again.

“No public address. No death record.”

“Where did he live?” I ask.

Thomas looks across the dark water toward San Francisco.

“Chinatown. Above a restaurant owned by his family.”

Marquez takes out her phone.

“What was the restaurant called?”

“The Blue Lantern.”