She jerked her hand back from the desk, gasping. Blood ran from her nose in a steady stream, and when she touched her throat, she found finger-shaped bruises already forming on her skin—bruises that matched the grip of the killers.
Each experience stole something from her—a memory, a year of life, a piece of her sanity. She wondered how many she had left before the account came due.
“I know what happened. I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
The temperature dropped, and for a moment, a translucent figure materialized beside the desk. Seventeen forever, dark hair floating. The spirit’s mouth moved urgently, forming words without sound, but she understood with perfect clarity:
“He’s still here. Still killing. Stop him.”
Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of seawater and the weight of an obligation she couldn’t refuse.
Downstairs, Martha took one look at her bloodstained face and the bruises darkening on her throat and began to weep. “You saw it, didn’t you? You saw what they did to my baby.”
She nodded, accepting the towel Martha pressed into her hands. “Gerald and Winston Aldrich. They drowned her inthe tunnels because she discovered proof of their smuggling operations.”
Martha’s face went white. “Both of them.” Her voice turned bitter. “Gerald’s still the lighthouse keeper. Winston’s the mayor. They’ve been walking around this town for twenty-five years, attending town meetings, shaking hands, pretending to be good men.” Her hands clenched into fists. “And all that time, they knew exactly where she was because they’d put her there themselves.”
“Did Lily ever mention their names specifically in her research?”
“She was careful not to say too much. But after she disappeared, after Robert started asking questions, he was let go, and then died . . .” Martha’s voice grew stronger with anger. “I started putting the pieces together. The Aldriches control access to the lighthouse. They’ve been protecting those secrets for decades.”
Martha reached across and grasped her hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Promise me something. When you find the truth, when you expose them—make them pay. Both of them. For Lily, for Robert, for everyone they’ve hurt.”
She looked at her reflection in the antique mirror across the room and noticed new gray streaks in her dark hair. The intensive use of her abilities often manifested this way—premature aging that marked the women in her family. But she had learned to pace herself, to protect her health while still helping others.
Unlike her mother, she wasn’t alone. Detective Harrington might be skeptical, but he was honest, and he sought the truth. Together, they might succeed where previous generations had failed.
As Vivienne prepared to leave, Martha disappeared into another room and returned carrying a small wooden box. “Theseare Lily’s.” Her voice trembled as she held it out. “Just a few personal things I kept separate from the research materials. A hair ribbon, her locket, some scraps of paper with her handwriting. I thought . . . maybe they could help you.” She pressed the box into Vivienne’s hands.
Vivienne accepted the box, feeling its weight—not just physical, but the emotional burden of a mother’s twenty-five-year grief. “I’ll do what I can, Martha. I promise.”
SIX
brooks
Brooks spreadLily’s research across his desk at the station. Martha had given him the box yesterday afternoon, and he’d spent most of the evening reviewing the contents. Now, in the early morning quiet before the shift change, he could focus on what the seventeen-year-old had discovered.
The notebooks detailed an organized investigation into the lighthouse’s role during Prohibition. Lily had tracked smuggling routes, corrupt officials, and money changing hands. She’d been building a case about crimes that occurred decades before she was born, but her notes suggested the operation hadn’t ended with Prohibition.
One page caught his attention. She’d created a timeline of researchers and journalists who had investigated the lighthouse over the decades. Beside each name, she’d noted what happened:
Catherine Hartwell (1923) - “Fell” from lighthouse, ruled suicide
Dr. James Whitmore (1956) - Drowned when sailboat capsized
Margaret Thornton (1967) - Disappeared, never found
Various others, all meeting unfortunate ends or leaving town suddenly
The pattern went back a century.
Brooks pulled out his phone and texted Officer Daniels.
Brooks: Need you to pull death certificates and police reports for the names I’m sending. Going back to 1923.
He photographed Lily’s list and sent it over. If the Aldrich family had been eliminating threats for generations, there would be evidence. Convenient accidents left trails.
His office phone rang. Chief Sullivan.
