CHAPTER 16
Robert’s grandmother dropped Ben off at Parson’s Marina around ten fifteen on Saturday morning. He stumbled along the pier out to the Tempus Fugit, opened the hatch, and walked down through the galley, through the saloon, and into his forward cabin. He dropped his backpack on the deck, then dropped himself like a rock onto his bunk.
His dad came to the doorway. “Hey, Ben—you have a good time at Robert’s last night?”
Ben lifted his head an inch or so. “What? Oh . . . oh, yeah. A good time. Stayed up really late . . .” His head hit the pillow again.
His dad smiled and closed the cabin door.
Around twelve fifteen Ben started swatting at a fly. It buzzed around and around his head. He knocked it away, but a few minutes later it was back, buzzing again.
Then he realized it wasn’t a fly.
He sat up on his bunk, frowning at the sour taste in his mouth. He reached for his phone as it vibrated for the third time. It was a text from Jill to him and to Robert—three words: Chk yr email.
Ben moved to his desk, sat down stiffly, and fired up his laptop.
There was an e-mail from his mom—two days old. And then there was an ad for new sailing gear, a random assortment of spam, and there was something from . . . the Glennley Group?
What . . . ?
Ben clicked, and the document opened up.
The e-mail had been sent to Jill’s mom at her Historical Society address, and then Jill had forwarded it to him and Robert.