Marina grabbed the box and kicked for the surface. Behind her, she felt the wreck shiver. A cloud of silt rose from the deck. And then, one by one, the portholes of the Ilhabela 2 began to glow with a soft, internal amber light. On the boat, Leo hauled her over the gunwale. The jade box sat between them, dripping.
Inside, there was no jewel, no scroll. Just a single, perfect, dried human ear. And a note on rag paper, the ink still sharp:
She jerked her hand back. The hum stopped. The ambient sound of the ocean returned—the distant groan of a freighter’s propeller, the snap of shrimp.
“Evidence,” Marina said, though she didn’t know of what. She unlatched the tiny gold clasp.
“Don’t open it, Marina. It’s not treasure. It’s a trap.”
Dr. Tanaka had lied. This wasn’t a collector’s piece. This was something else. Something that had been deliberately sunk.
The Ilhabela 2 .
“We dive at dawn,” Marina announced. The water was a cold, green cathedral. Marina’s dive light cut through the murk like a knife, revealing the Ilhabela 2 in terrible glory. Her brass fittings were verdigris-green, her wooden hull encrusted with feather stars. She lay on her side, as if sleeping.
