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)
“To the lighthouse?”
“If you’re up for it. I thought maybe we could . . .” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “Never mind. It’s probably a bad idea.”
“No. I want to.” Vivienne understood what he wasn’t saying. They’d nearly died there. They’d forged their connection there. They needed to reclaim it as something other than a trauma site.
Brooks parked in the small lot. The lighthouse grounds looked different in afternoon sun—peaceful, even welcoming. The keeper’s cottage was boarded up pending historical society restoration, but the tower itself stood proud against the sky.
They walked the path together, neither speaking. The cliff where Vivienne had found Melissa’s button. The entrance to the basement where the tunnels began. The door to the tower itself, now locked but visible through the fence.
“The FBI cleared it last week,” Brooks said. “Sullivan has the keys if you ever want to go inside.”
“Maybe someday. When it doesn’t make my ribs ache to look at it.”
They stood at the fence, watching waves crash against the rocks below. The beacon would activate at dusk, its light sweeping across the water in steady rhythm. A warning. A guide. Both at once.
“Lily’s at peace now,” Vivienne said quietly. “I can feel it. She’s not trapped here anymore.”
“Because of you.”
“Because of us. You trusted me when no one else would. Followed leads that made no sense. Let me guide you with visions and intuition instead of evidence.” She turned to face him. “That’s what solved the case. Not my abilities or your detective work. Both together.”
Brooks smiled. “Best partnership I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too,” Vivienne said. “I never thought I’d work with law enforcement. But this . . . this works.”
“It does.” He looked out at the ocean. “Ready to do it again?”
“On the next case? Absolutely.”
They stayed at the lighthouse until the sun began to set, talking about the future. Brooks’s permanent position. Vivienne’s expanding business. The possibility of consulting on more cases together. Professional plans for a not-quite-typical partnership.
As they walked back to the car, Vivienne felt Mathilde’s presence—not urgent or warning, just approving. Her great-great-grandmother had built protections into this lighthouse, had fought the Aldriches in her own time, had started a legacy that Vivienne was continuing.
But she was doing it differently. With a partner. With support. With purpose.
The beacon activated as they drove away, its light cutting through the gathering dusk. Vivienne watched it in the side mirror, feeling its steady rhythm like a heartbeat.
Some endings were really beginnings.
Some lighthouses guided you home.
And some ghosts were finally, peacefully, at rest.
Keep reading for Lily’s story
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one
October, 1999
Lily Morgan traced the lighthouse outline she’d drawn in her notebook margin, her pen following the same white tower she could see through the classroom window. Mr. Davidson droned on about the Salem Witch Trials, his overhead projector fan humming, but her attention kept drifting to Hawthorne Point.
The tower stood against the gray October sky, its beacon dark now but ready for nightfall. Seagulls wheeled around its peak, and she could just make out her father’s pickup truck parked at the base—another maintenance call, another afternoon of him wrestling with equipment while she waited at home.
“Senior research projects,” Mr. Davidson announced, clicking off the projector. “Forty percent of your final grade. Due December fifteenth.”
Lily straightened, her pen poised over the spiral notebook. Brown University’s journalism program accepted only the best students. Every grade counted now.
“I want college-level work,” he continued, perching on the edge of his desk. “Primary sources. Original analysis. If I see one citation from an encyclopedia, you’ll rewrite the entire paper.”
Her classmates groaned in unison. Lily’s mouth curled upward. The hunt for truth beneath surface facts, the puzzle of fitting scattered pieces into a coherent story—this was what real journalists did.
“Local history projects work well,” he said, distributing photocopied sheets. “We live in one of New England’s most historically rich areas. Use that advantage.”
Lily scanned the approved topics: Maritime Commerce in 19th Century Salem, The Witch Trials: Separating Fact from Fiction, Industrial Revolution’s Impact on the Local Fishing Industry. Standard fare that would send her to the library’s dusty microfiche machine for hours of eye-straining research.
Her gaze drifted back to the window. The keeper’s house sat empty at the tower’s base, its windows dark, but chimney smoke had once curled from that roof. Families had lived there, children had played beneath its towering presence, and someone had climbed those stairs every evening to tend the light.
“You may also propose your own topic,” he added, “provided it meets academic standards and focuses on pre-1950 history.”
“The Hawthorne Point Lighthouse.” The words escaped before Lily could catch them.
His eyebrows rose. “Interesting choice, Miss Morgan. Built in 1847, it has a rich maritime history. Your father works there now, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He maintains the automated systems.”
“Excellent primary source access.” A note went into his grade book. “I’d suggest focusing on a specific aspect. The construction period, perhaps, or the keeper families who lived there.”