A local Girl Scout troop had dropped off a bag of snacks earlier in the week, and while most of the good stuff had already been devoured, Justin found a half-squashed Kind bar at the bottom of the bag and carried it along with a fresh cup of coffee back to his desk. Steam curled from the coffee cup as he sat in front of his computer again and navigated over to the familiar neighborhood news page on Facebook. It was where people in town talked about anything and everything—house break-ins, the neighbor who left his Christmas lights up all year, the overgrown lot where high schoolers congregated to drink cheap beer and listen to loud music.

He scrolled down, skimming his gaze over the usual names and gripes, then something stopped him. Two photos side by side, one of which showed a metal boat, possibly green but the amount of rust and gunk made it difficult to tell. The second photo was a close-up of a blue stripe running horizontally across the side of the boat. There wasn’t anything special about it, nothing familiar to him, and yet something tapped on the inside of his chest. Look at me, it seemed to say. Pay attention.

Below the photo was a name he didn’t recognize and a short caption.

This boat showed up under my dock on Little River a few mornings ago, half stuck into the sand. Boat seems pretty old, and it’s obviously been underwater for a while. It’s green aluminum with a blue stripe on the side. If the boat belongs to you or you have any information about it, please call or send a private message.

Justin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, staring at the photos. He wasn’t supposed to be looking for a boat. He was trying to solve the car burglaries. On each of the driver’s side doors of the vandalized vehicles, there was the same scratch, a deep mark that appeared purposeful. The mystery had teeth and Justin wanted to be the one to figure it out. Checking out this boat would only get in his way.

There was something about the boat though. He tried scrolling past it, but his finger kept coming right back to the photos of the murky green, the algae softening the lines of the hull.

He should ignore the photos—and that strange tapping in his chest—and keep his focus squarely on the car burglaries. But there was another option: Uncle Frank. Frank could dig up info about the boat while Justin did his real job. If Frank uncovered anything of importance, Justin could step in. He ripped open the Kind bar’s wrapper, took a bite, and chewed slowly before he reached for the phone.

“You’re up and at ’em early.” Frank’s voice was always deep, but in the morning it was deeper than ever, as if the night still clung to his vocal cords, trying to lull them back to sleep. “Must have had a night shift.”