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)
“I grew up here, Detective. My great-great-great grandmother lived in the keeper’s quarters before she moved into the house where you enjoyed coffee this morning. I know every trail, every beach, every cave along this coastline. Most of us do,” she paused and looked at the search team. “And I believe the word you’re looking for is psychic. That’s what I am.”
Vivienne looked at Chief Sullivan for an answer. She had stopped caring a long time ago about what people thought of her.
“Fine.” Chief Sullivan nodded reluctantly. “But stay close and follow instructions if we find anything.”
She was already moving toward the narrow trail that wound through dense coastal vegetation down the steep cliff face. She knew this path intimately, having explored it countless times since childhood. The hidden cove had always been a place of refuge and reflection for her.
Today, however, it might hold more than solitude.
As she led the group down the treacherous path, she felt the presence behind them, its silent witness to whatever was about to be uncovered. The spirits had guided her to the button and the photograph. They wanted the truth to emerge, wanted justice for the crimes committed in their sacred spaces.
By the time they reached the rocky beach, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Chief Sullivan called for additional backup, his radio crackling with static as he coordinated the expanded search. Harrington remained focused on documenting the scene, taking photographs and making notes.
The search would continue into the evening, but Vivienne already knew they wouldn’t find Melissa Clarkson here. The spirits had shown her enough to understand that the missing woman was somewhere else entirely, somewhere connected to the hidden history.
She watched Harrington crouch near a rock formation, examining it with careful attention before dismissing it. Evidence, procedure, documented facts—that was his world. Hers operated on different principles. Spirits, visions, centuries of family knowledge passed down through generations of women. He’d called her finds coincidence. Lucky guesses. He didn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain without sounding exactly as he suspected—delusional or a fraud.
But Melissa Clarkson was still missing, and that was what mattered. Whether Brooks Harrington believed in her methods or not, she would continue following the trail.
Hours later, alone in her kitchen, she sat at her grandmother’s old wooden table, hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea. The events of the day had drained her more than usual—the visions had been vivid, demanding. What they’d revealed sat heavy in her chest. Somewhere a woman remained in danger.
The new detective’s skepticism had been predictable but still irritating. His dismissal of her insights despite the evidence she’d helped uncover was familiar—the same rigid thinking she’d encountered before. The kind that missed what was hidden in plain sight, the kind that let secrets fester for generations.
The scarf’s memory still occupied her thoughts. Not otherworldly terror, but the very human fear of someone who had discovered a terrible secret and realized too late that knowledge could be deadly. Melissa Clarkson was alive; she was certain of that. But for how long, she didn’t know.
Vivienne decided she would visit Martha Morgan with or without Detective Harrington’s approval. Lily’s mother might have more information that connected these cases. The investigation would continue, parallel to but separate from the official search. As it always did in Westerly Cove.
The official investigation could proceed with its evidence and documentation. She would follow the trail the spirits provided, whether the detective approved or not.
FOUR
brooks
Brooks arrived at the Westerly Cove Police Department at seven thirty, the October morning already carrying a chill that reminded him why he’d left Texas. A young officer was at the front desk, phone pressed to his ear. He waved Brooks over.
“County lab,” he mouthed, then wrapped up. “Yes, sir. I’ll let him know. Thanks.”
He hung up and stood, extending his hand. “Detective Harrington? I’m Officer Daniels. That was the lab—they finished processing the blood from the keeper’s cottage. It’s Melissa Clarkson’s type—AB negative. DNA confirmation should be ready by end of day.”
Mid-twenties, with an eager energy that reminded Brooks of his former partner Traci in her early days—the same enthusiasm, the same confidence that procedure would lead to justice.
Brooks shook his hand. “Good work getting that expedited.”
Brooks set his coffee down and pulled out his notebook. “What about the photograph we found? Any luck tracing when it was taken or how it ended up there?”
“Still working on it. But I’ve got something else.” Daniels handed him a file. “I pulled records on Lily Morgan like you asked. The girl who went missing twenty-five years ago.”
Brooks flipped it open. Seventeen years old, high school senior, disappeared October 1999. Last seen near the lighthouse, conducting research for a history project. Body never recovered. Case went cold within six months.
“Why October?” Brooks asked, recalling what he overhead yesterday when he was near the harbor. “Bad things happen at the lighthouse in October.”