I studied a crumpled handwritten note that I’d discovered in the puzzle box Piotr left at my apartment right before he’d died, killed by a bolt of lightning from out of the blue.
A roofless pink shack on a boulder, steps cut into the seaweed strewn rock, sat on the beach nonchalantly. I took a deep breath; the acrid tang of saltwater and dead fish rushed up my nostrils, put its clammy hands around my lungs.
This was the spot the crazy bastard said I’d find it alright, but he hadn’t said exactly where.
I’d need to get my tools.