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“My compass.”
Ben turns to me. “What compass?”
“The brass compass Grandpa gave me on my last birthday before he died. It stopped working, but I kept it because it was from him.”
“Where is it?” Keating asks.
My mouth goes dry.
“It was in my cabin aboard Sea Whisper.”
Storm’s face loses all color.
“The cabinet beside your bed was open,” she says.
I look toward the officer standing near the door.
“Tell the boarding team to find my compass.”
He reaches for his radio.
Before he can call, Keating’s phone rings.
He answers.
The voice on the other end speaks rapidly.
Keating looks directly at me.
“What?” I demand. “What happened?”
“The team found an empty compass case in your cabin.”
The room seems to tilt beneath my feet.
Ben catches my waist.
Keating ends the call.
“Your compass is gone.”
Someone searched Sea Whisper.
Someone knew what Grandpa gave us.
And now they have the first piece of the eye.
7
CALLE
“Acompass can tell you which direction to travel. It cannot tell you whom to trust when you arrive.”
—James Sinclair
“Your compass is gone.”
Keating’s words echo through the evidence room.
