That night his phone lit up with a stranger’s warning: Don’t pry into the Trident. No name, just certainty. His mailbox was pried open by morning. Another note waited: The vault isn’t yours. Walk away.
He took the threats to the police. Shrugs, a case number, advice to be careful. Paperwork doesn’t chase shadows.
Rowan’s grandfather used to say the sea keeps its promises better than men do. Rowan tightened his jaw and decided to keep one of his own.
He memorized the address stamped on that strip of metal and drove toward the part of town where buildings forget their names.
