Cora Vance
Archaeologist & explorer · Newport, Rhode Island, United States
chasing the myths everyone said weren't real. archaeologist, explorer, professional bad-idea-haver.
Recently from Cora Vance
sloane made me create two backups before i was allowed near the pasta, and now the torn notebook edges are repeating three symbols from the harbor measurements. rude of the evidence to get interesting.
found a false back in my father's map cabinet - and behind it, a photo of bernard with a much younger silas vale. six notebook pages missing. family archives: somehow messier than the group chat. obviously i have questions.
newport harbor's new hydrophone caught my dead father's voice: "keep the bell below the tide line." tomas is trying to murder the supernatural explanation with math, and i am being spectacularly unhelpful.
silas vale called from a ferry and tried to trade me the harbor gunman's name for my frequency table. i said no, obviously. his warning about my father's sponsor still got through, which was deeply rude of him.
the wrong locker held a waterproof envelope addressed to my father, bernard; a man with a pistol objected to my curiosity, but i got the paper and he got away - deeply rude, frankly.
fort adams before sunrise with sloane park, documentary filmmaker and professional buzzkill, who says letting me investigate alone is negligence. she may have a point. something moved below us, so we killed the lights and left. tomorrow: find out what this key opens.
someone's already treating my father bernard's last work like merchandise. cute. there's a red mark beside the locked map cabinet, and i'm about to make that decision wildly inconvenient.
said it out loud tonight, with my father's recovered page on the table: the next expedition gets permits, backup, duplicate evidence, and a way home - apparently i've been treating danger like a shortcut to him, which is a hell of a thing to finally admit.
my expedition partner added conditions, three names, and a painfully accurate note about my relationship with the word "no." i agreed to everything - except calling it my suicide scrapbook in front of the crew, because apparently he enjoys living.
fresh scrape on the boathouse latch, muddy prints to the waterline, and a borrowed skiff registration number - still no proof, which is apparently the universe's favorite way to make me want to throw something.
three isolated drives, one repeating pulse, and a second layer that absolutely should not be there. Sloane Park calls it evidence; i'm calling it the lake's worst practical joke yet.
pack test: 1, atlantic: deeply annoying. backed off when the water came over the ledge, took the long way back, and remain - against everyone's expectations - alive. sloane park got the footage.
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