They picked their way down the narrow path that switch backed along the cliff face. Loose stone and exposed roots made the descent treacherous, but someone had used this route recently. Broken branches and disturbed earth marked fresh passage.
The beach stretched as a crescent of dark sand and rounded stones, sheltered on three sides by granite walls. At high tide, boats could reach it. At low tide, it revealed what the water usually concealed.
He documented the scene from multiple angles before examining specific areas. Near the waterline, rope fibers caught on a barnacle-encrusted rock. Farther up the beach, a depression in the sand showed where something heavy had been dragged toward the water.
“There.” Vivienne pointed to a natural shelf in the cliff wall about six feet above the high tide line. “Someone stored something there recently.”
He climbed to examine the shelf and found fresh scuff marks on the rock and traces of canvas fiber. Every sample went into bags, the detachment that had served him throughout his career holding steady, though unease prickled at his neck.
The sensation of surveillance grew stronger, but each time he turned to scan the cliff walls or the tree line above, he saw no one.
“We should work quickly.” Her voice carried tension. “This place has too many hiding spots.”
“It’s a geographical location.” The automatic response came even as his wariness grew. The silence continued—no seabirds despite the coastal setting, no insects around the tidal pools, no normal sounds of a living ecosystem.
Footsteps crunched on the path above them. An elderly man picked his way down the cliff trail with the grace of someone who had made this descent countless times.
“Old Jack.” Surprise colored Vivienne’s greeting. “I didn’t expect you here.”
Jack Thornton reached the beach and approached them. Up close, the fisherman’s weathered face showed deep lines from decades of sun and salt spray, but his pale blue eyes stayed sharp.
“Figured you’d end up here eventually.” He nodded toward the bags. “Found what you were looking for?”
“Not yet. Did you see anything unusual in the past few days? Boats, people, activity?” Brooks asked.
Jack’s expression darkened. “Been seeing unusual things around here for thirty years, Detective. Question is whether you’re ready to hear about them.”
“Try me.”
The old fisherman gestured toward the scattered shipwrecks. “Those aren’t all accidents. Some are, sure—vessels caught in sudden squalls, captains who didn’t know the rocks. But others . . .” He pointed to a partially submerged hull near the far wall. “That one’s the Mary Catherine, vanished in 1987 with a hold full of cargo that never appeared on any manifest. Coast Guard called it a probable sinking, but I watched her go down. Wasn’t weather that took her.”
Jack had turned his attention to Vivienne, who had moved closer to the water’s edge and now stood motionless, staring at the dark water.
“Some places remember violence. This one’s remembered too much. Your friend there—she’s sensitive to memories that ain’t her own. Dangerous thing in a place like this.”
Vivienne staggered, reaching out blindly for support. Brooks dropped his kit and moved to steady her, alarmed by how cold her skin felt through her jacket.
“I’m fine.” Her voice came weak and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. “Just need a moment.”
“You’re hypothermic. In this weather, that shouldn’t be possible.”
Jack nodded. “Gets into your bones if you stay too long, especially if you’re the type to see things others can’t.”
Brooks helped her to a sun-warmed boulder and checked her pulse and breathing. Her heart rate ran high but her temperature seemed to stabilize in direct sunlight.
“What did you see?”
“Terror.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Someone brought Melissa Clarkson here against her will. She was terrified, fighting, but they were stronger. The fear is embedded in this place—it’s why the water looks so dark, why nothing grows here. Too much violence, too much death.”
Jack just shrugged. “Told you she was sensitive. Some folks pick up emotional echoes from traumatic events. This place’s got more echoes than most.”
Her physical reaction was real and her previous insights had proven accurate. Whatever she experienced—whether beyond reason or unconscious reading of environmental cues—it provided information that aligned with what he’d found.
“Can you make it back up the path?” Brooks asked. He gathered the bags while staying close enough to offer support.
“Yes.” She stood with care. “The impressions fade once I move away from the source. Just takes a moment to process.”
He steadied her with one hand while securing everything with the other. Together they began the ascent. Her condition improved with each step away from the black water.
