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)
“Where?”
“Here. Beneath The Mystic Cup. Though I’ve searched the basement many times and never found any evidence of a sealed passage.”
He set down his cup. “Would you object if I took a look at your basement sometime? Professionally speaking, of course.” She didn’t reply, and after a long moment of silence, Brooks continued. “How extensive is the space beneath The Mystic Cup? Any unusual features—brick walls that seem newer than others, unexplained drafts, hollow-sounding sections of flooring?”
“My grandmother mentioned a bricked-up archway in the northeast corner. I always assumed it was structural, perhaps from when the building was renovated in the 1920s. There’s a section of floor that sounds different when walked upon, but I’ve never found any mechanism to open it.”
He tapped his pen against his notebook. “Would such tunnels still be usable after all these years? The coastline experiences significant erosion.”
“The original passages were carved partially through bedrock. My grandmother’s journals suggest they were reinforced during Prohibition with concrete and modern supports. If maintained, they could certainly remain functional.”
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then answered. “Harrington.” His expression shifted as he listened, tension returning to his posture. “When? . . . Yes, I know where that is. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He ended the call and stood, reaching for his jacket. “I have to go. They found Melissa Clark’s rental car abandoned near the old marina, about five miles north of town.”
She rose as well. “Any sign of her?”
“No, but evidence of blood in the trunk.” His gaze met hers, professional but not unkind. “Thank you for the tea and information. I’ll follow up tomorrow.”
She walked him to the door. “Detective, be careful at the marina. It’s an isolated area, and the old boathouse has a reputation for incidents. The flooring is unstable in places, and several fishermen have reported unusual sounds after dark.”
He paused, seemingly heeding to the tone in her voice. “Another insight?”
Vivienne shrugged. “Just local knowledge. And perhaps a bit of intuition.” She smiled softly.
He nodded, accepting the ambiguity. “Lock up behind me. These recent events suggest caution would be wise for everyone in Westerly Cove.”
After he left, she secured the shop as suggested, checking the locks twice before heading upstairs to her apartment. The day’s events had left her mentally exhausted but too unsettled for sleep. She moved to the bay window that overlooked the harbor, her gaze seeking the lighthouse in the distance.
Its beam swept steadily across the water, a rhythm unchanged for over a century and a half. Yet tonight, the light seemed to falter occasionally, developing an irregular pattern. The image from her meditation returned—the hidden doorway in the cliff face, the girl looking back in terror.
What had Lily discovered twenty-five years ago? And had Melissa Clark somehow stumbled upon the same dangerous secret?
She touched the pendant at her throat, its warmth a reminder of her connection to both the past and whatever was unfolding now. The Hawthornes had always served as guardians of Westerly Cove in their own way. Perhaps it was time to take a more active role than simply waiting for clarity to come.
The next morning, she walked to the blue house with white trim on Harbor Street. The small yard looked meticulously maintained despite the season.
Her knock was answered quickly. Martha had been waiting. The woman who greeted her bore little resemblance to the vibrant person she remembered from her childhood. Twenty-five years of grief had carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth, turned her hair completely silver, and left her frame thin and brittle. But her eyes remained sharp, intelligent, and hungry for answers that had never come.
“Vivienne.” The voice carried hope and wariness. “Please, come in.”
The interior smelled of lavender and old books. Photographs covered every surface in the small sitting room—school portraits, family vacations, candid moments that captured a bright-eyed girl growing into a young woman. Then they stopped.
“I gave that new detective all of Lily’s research yesterday,” Martha said, settling into an armchair. “He was kind. Actually listened. Not like the others.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “But there’s something I didn’t tell him. Something I’ve never told anyone because they’d think I was crazy.”
“Tell me.”
Martha’s eyes filled with tears. “The last morning—before she went to school that day—she was different. Made me her favorite pancakes, told me she loved me, thanked me for raising her right. I knew something was wrong, but when I asked, she just smiled and said she was thinking about the future.” Her voice cracked. “I should have pushed harder. Should have made her tell me what she was planning.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“But I did know. A mother knows when her child is saying goodbye.” Martha wiped her eyes. “And that night, when she said she was going to study at her friend’s house, she hugged us both longer than usual. Told us she loved us again. Then she walked out that door, and I never saw her alive again.”