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)
The drive to The Mystic Cup took less than five minutes. Brooks parked on the street, noting the warm light spilling from the tea shop’s windows.
He may had reservations about Vivienne and the way she found the evidence, but he couldn’t dispute the facts: the scratches on his car door were real, the blood at the lighthouse was real and the same type as Melissa’s, and Lily Morgan had been interested in the same thing Melissa was, and she’d gone missing as well.
Every fiber in his being told him to turn around and drive back to his rental. Instead, he raised his hand and tapped his knuckles against the door.
FIVE
vivienne
Eight o’clock.
Vivienne flipped the sign to “Closed” and began wiping down tables, counting the register, and preparing dough for tomorrow’s scones. The kneading occupied her hands while her mind processed the missing tourist, the hidden cove, and the photograph with L.M. written on the back. Each piece warned of approaching danger.
But what was the danger?
The pendant at her throat had stayed warm all day, spirits attempting to reach her. She’d learned to moderate the connection over the years, allowing impressions to filter through without overwhelming her, but tonight the pressure built toward something she could no longer contain.
Once the kitchen sparkled, she retreated to her reading room at the back of the shop. This small sanctuary lay hidden behind an ancient tapestry depicting phases of the moon, its heavy fabric concealing the doorway. The space contained her most powerful tools: crystals aligned on shelves according to purpose, grimoires passed down through women in her family, and the polished oak table where she conducted her most significant readings.
She cast a circle of sea salt around the perimeter, whispering protective words her grandmother had taught her. An iron nail went in at each cardinal point—north, south, east, west—ancient metal to guard against unwelcome spirits. Only then did she approach the table.
Three white candles formed a triangle—one for past, one for present, one for future. The silver pendant came off next, laid in the center to amplify her connection. From a locked cabinet beneath the bookshelves, she retrieved her grandmother’s scrying bowl, a shallow vessel of polished obsidian that reflected candlelight in hypnotic patterns across its surface.
Water from a crystal pitcher filled the bowl. She added three drops of rosemary oil for memory and clarity, a pinch of mugwort, and a single drop of her own blood to strengthen the bond between seer and seen. The ritual took time, each element added with purpose and respect. The scent of beeswax candles, herbs, and the faint mineral tang of obsidian connected her to her grandmothers and mother. All who had sought truth in this space.
“Show me what I need to see.” She placed her fingertips on the rim of the bowl.
Eyes closed, breathing slow, her grandmother’s training guided her into the meditative state where clarity came. Images began to form behind her eyelids—not in the water, but in the quiet space where the spirit world touched the living one.
The lighthouse appeared first, its beam cutting through the fog. Then came the hidden cove, but not as she had seen it today. The perspective shifted, showing the water approach, a small boat gliding toward the concealed entrance. Two figures waited on the shore. One moved with confidence, the other stumbled as if disoriented or drugged. A flash of blue caught her attention—the same silken scarf they had found on the rocks, but intact and wrapped around a woman’s neck. Then a gleam of something metallic—a knife? A camera lens catching moonlight? The images blurred and shifted.
A young woman with dark hair ran along the cliff path, clutching something against her chest. Though her face remained indistinct, Vivienne knew it was Lily Morgan. She looked back over her shoulder in terror, then ducked into an opening that shouldn’t exist—a doorway in the rock face.
The lighthouse keeper’s cottage appeared next, but as it had looked decades earlier. A man in an old-fashioned uniform argued with a woman whose face remained hidden. On the desk between them lay an open ledger, columns of numbers visible but indecipherable.
The images fragmented, leaving her disoriented. A coppery taste filled her mouth, and her fingertips tingled where they touched the bowl’s rim. Something stronger than her usual connection interfered, something ancient and protective.
She tried again, focusing on the girl who’d disappeared twenty-five years ago, but this time something actively resisted. The water rose in an unnatural column, twisting and forming shapes that clenched her stomach. For a moment, she glimpsed a face in the liquid surface—contorted with rage or desperate warning. The temperature dropped. Her breath misted in the air, and frost spread across the windowpanes. The candle flames stretched impossibly tall, their light shifting to an eerie green.
Someone—or something—did not want these secrets revealed. The water column turned toward her, its liquid features resolving into something almost human but wrong. This was no ordinary spirit communication. An ancient presence inhabited this space, one that had guarded these mysteries for decades.