Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
He stood, formulating a plan. “I’d like to take a look at the area myself. Get a feel for the terrain.”
“Figured you would. Just . . .” Sullivan hesitated, then nodded. “Just be careful out there, Harrington. And if anything seems off—anything at all—you radio for backup.”
After issuing Brooks a new badge, giving him a radio, and a PD issued side arm, the chief walked with him to the front door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “One more thing. You’ll probably hear stories about the lighthouse. Local legends, ghost tales, that sort of nonsense. Don’t let it distract you. This is a practical matter with practical answers.”
Brooks nodded.
Chief Sullivan let out a long exhale. “I’ll be out there shortly myself.”
Brooks walked back toward Harbor Street. Sullivan’s warning hung in the air. He’d come to Westerly Cove to escape. To slow down and find peace. The last thing he expected was to have to deal with a missing person before his official start date. Yet, here he was.
The harbor was busier now. Fishing boats returning with their afternoon catch. Tourist boats heading out. Despite the month, people swam in the ocean. Some even surfed. Brooks watched the locals, looking for patterns, routine interaction among the locals, between the workers on the dock, and the boat crews. This was his habit. He was always Detective Harrington and never Brooks. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to be anyone different but hoped a change of scenery could help him figure it out.
Everything appeared normal. Or as normal as he would expect.
Then he noticed the footprints.
They started at the water’s edge, near the main pier and led up the ramp toward Harbor Street. Wet footprints, as if someone had just emerged from the ocean. But the prints were clear and fresh. Water still pooled in the deepest impressions. He could see no one walking ahead of him who could have made them.
Adult-sized. Barefoot. He followed them across the street, toward the town center. The sidewalk ahead was empty of any swimmers or surfers. No one appeared to be dripping wet.
Brooks scrubbed his face. Clearly, he was tired and needed a decent night’s sleep. Surely, where there were footprints, there would be a person, walking and dripping water from their clothes.
There was neither.
The prints continued for half a block before ending mid-step. Not at the storm drain. Three feet before it. As if whoever had made them had vanished mid-stride. He crouched beside the last clear print, checking his phone: 2:47 p.m. He’d been following the trail for less than three minutes.
He used his phone to take several photographs. Probably just someone who had been swimming and dried off quickly. A jogger who had cooled off in the harbor and was now inside one of the shops.
There had to be a logical explanation.
But as he straightened and looked back toward the lighthouse, he thought about Traci’s voice in his dream: “Don’t trust what you can’t see.”
He stared at the lighthouse and then remembered what the Chief had said earlier. Whatever was happening in Westerly Cove, he suspected the lighthouse held the key to understanding it.
THREE
vivienne
The lighthouse pulled her forward along the cliff side path.
Vivienne had closed The Mystic Cup early, hanging a handwritten sign on the door that read “Family Emergency” before rushing upstairs to change. Jeans, a thick sweater, and sturdy hiking shoes replaced her vintage dress and delicate boots.
Family emergency. The phrase rang true. The Hawthornes had served as guardians of Westerly Cove across the years. When the beacon called with such urgency, she had to answer.
The moment she’d heard about Melissa Clarkson’s disappearance, the visions had intensified. Images flashed through her mind—a blue scarf caught on jagged rocks, handprints on cold stone walls, water rising in a narrow passage. This case called to her abilities in ways she couldn’t ignore.
About twenty people milled around the parking area when she arrived. She recognized most of them—locals receiving instructions from a stocky man with salt and pepper hair. Chief Sullivan. His police uniform bore the comfortable appearance of daily wear, and he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who’d served his community. Chief Sullivan was well liked and well respected in Westerly Cove.
Detective Harrington stood apart from the group, notebook in hand, scanning the crowd. He assessed each volunteer with the same skepticism he’d shown her at The Mystic Cup.
She adjusted the silver pendant at her throat and approached. Many nodded greetings—Mrs. Truman from the library, the Peterson brothers who ran the hardware store, young Jamie Walsh who worked at the marina. The Hawthornes had helped their families over the years, finding lost heirlooms, providing comfort after deaths, offering guidance during difficult times. Small towns remembered such kindnesses.
“Miss Hawthorne,” Velta Wright from the book club called. “Thank goodness you’re here. If anyone can help find that poor woman, it’s you.”