There, half-hidden under limp weed and old shell crust, stood a flat slab of concrete wedged between natural stone. It did not belong there. Four rusted bolts rose from it in a square, and the rock around it looked cut, not shaped by tide or time.
A few yards farther on, Eli called her name in a strangled whisper. Behind a low outcrop, tucked into shadow, lay the top of an iron hatch almost swallowed by barnacles. Its rim was choked with grit, but its outline was too deliberate to mistake.