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 arrivedat 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.”
“No idea. Could be coincidence.” Daniels shrugged. “But Mrs. Pennington at the historical society mentioned Lily had been asking questions about the lighthouse’s history during Prohibition. Smuggling, illegal activities, that kind of thing.”
Brooks added it to his notes. “Melissa Clarkson was interested in local history too. Daniel told Chief Sullivan his wife had been researching the lighthouse.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I think two women interested in the same location going missing twenty-five years apart is worth investigating. But also, Mr. Clarkson wasn’t at the search yesterday.”
“Distraught husband?”
“Or guilty and doesn’t want to unsuspectingly show us where to look.”
“Always the first suspect.”
“Sadly.” Brooks closed the file. “Where’s Sullivan?”
“Coordinating the search. Coast Guard’s got boats out, and we’ve got volunteers covering the trails.” Daniels hesitated. “Detective, I heard Chief Sullivan mention you were with that woman from the tea shop yesterday. The one who does readings. Miss Hawthorne. She’s got a reputation in town.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“Well that depends on who you ask. She just came back to town not too long ago—been living in Boston, I think. But her grandmother ran that shop for decades, and people still talk about her. Some folks say the Hawthorne women have helped solve cases going back generations. Others think it’s all nonsense.” Daniels shrugged. “Either way, Miss Hawthorne showing up right before a woman goes missing has people talking.”
“She’s not a suspect,” Brooks said flatly. “Just someone who knows the area.”
“Right.” Daniels didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop.
His phone buzzed. Unknown local number. He answered. “Harrington.”
“Detective, it’s Martha Morgan.” The woman’s voice was elderly, strained. “Vivienne Hawthorne said you might be willing to listen. About my daughter Lily.”
