Shoals Public Library – Two Days Later
The paper with Ryland’s message sat between us on the table in the Shoals
Library’s back reading room, tucked behind shelves no one but Kate ever seemed
to use. Outside, the wind slapped dry leaves against the windows. Inside, it
was all dust motes and muffled silence.
Kate slid her laptop closer.
“I cross-checked hunting licenses, land leases, and tax records for
Martin County, and guess what—no one named Ryland is listed anywhere near the
bluffs or Jug Rock.”
“So he’s not local?” I asked.
“Not officially. But I found something else.” She spun the screen toward
me.
It was an archived news article from the Bedford Times-Mail, dated
eight years earlier.
“Historic Land Parcel Near Dover Hill Sold to Out-of-State Private Trust”
…a 320-acre tract along Dover Hill Road was quietly sold to an organization
called Grey Pine Development, headquartered in Virginia. The trust
representative, Mark Ryland, declined to state the group’s purpose but
said it would remain ‘non-public land for heritage preservation.’
“Grey Pine Development,” I said, reading aloud. “Sounds like a cover for
something else.”
Kate nodded. “And they own a tract of land right near the fourth site in
Ray’s cipher—Dover Hill.”
I leaned back, trying to connect the dots.
“So either Ryland’s just protecting his turf… or he knows about the
treasure too.”
She clicked over to another tab. “And here's the kicker—Grey Pine is
connected to a shell LLC that’s donated to a political action committee in D.C.
focused on ‘heritage recovery.’ I dug deeper and found Ryland listed on the
board of a group called the American Sovereign Trust.”
“Sounds… ominous.”
Kate shrugged. “They present themselves as historians. But there are
rumors they’re more like treasure hunters. Or cultural control freaks.”
“And they’re following us.”
She nodded. “I think we spooked them. If we weren’t close to something,
Ryland wouldn’t have left a note—he’d have let us walk off a cliff.”
I glanced back down at the paper on the table.
“Some treasure isn’t meant to be found.”
It didn’t read like a warning.
It read like a claim.
Later That Night – Eli’s Uncle’s House
I was sitting in Ray’s kitchen, flipping through his journal for the
third time that night, when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. One of
the pages had a water ring from a coffee mug—but under the ring, faintly
visible in pencil, were numbers:
12.4.3
I jotted them down.
Three digits.
I walked out to the barn, pulled the metal box from the crate, and spun
the dial.
12… 4… 3.
The lock clicked open.
Inside was a yellowed envelope with a brittle wax seal marked with the
same triangle and three dots.
I carefully peeled it open.
Inside were two items.
A small, aged fragment of a military payroll ledger, with several
entries crossed out in thick ink.
And a letter.
To whoever finds this,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve followed what I couldn’t. I found the
trail, but not the truth. I believe the gold exists—but I also believe it was
hidden for more than money. There’s something else buried with it.
I saw it once. At night, under the bluff. I don’t know what it was. I
stopped digging.
If you continue, be ready for more than maps and riddles. Be ready for
the people who want it to stay lost. And the ones who’ll kill for it to be
found.
—Ray
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