Halfway up, footsteps echoed from the forest above them—not the careful tread of hikers, but deliberate movement from someone trying to remain undetected. Brooks paused, listening for voices or additional sounds, but heard only the continued disturbance of undergrowth.
“Keep moving.” Jack followed them up the trail. “Too many observers. Best not to give them time to get a good look at what you found.”
Vivienne needed to get somewhere warm and safe. He concentrated on helping her climb, watching as color began to return to her face with distance from the water below.
At the top of the bluff, they paused to rest. From this height, the water looked normal blue-green, and the wrecked ships looked like ordinary maritime casualties rather than monuments to violence.
“Perspective matters in places like that.” Jack followed his gaze. “What you see depends on where you stand and what you’re willing to believe.”
The sounds of someone moving through the forest had stopped, but fresh breaks in branches marked the path they had taken—damage that hadn’t existed during their descent. Whoever had followed them had turned back but left clear traces of their presence.
“Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You found something, sure enough. But knowing what happened here is just the beginning.”
Jack headed toward the harbor while Brooks helped Vivienne back to his car. She had stopped shivering but still felt cold to the touch.
“I’m sorry.” She spoke as he started the engine and turned the heat to maximum. “I should have warned you about the effects. My grandmother always said we pay a price for the things we sense.”
He adjusted the vents to blow warm air at her. “What exactly did you experience down there?”
“Fear. Overwhelming terror from someone who knew they were going to die. Melissa was there, but she wasn’t alone. Someone brought her, someone who had done this before. The cold comes from accumulated fear—decades of it, maybe longer.”
Looking at her pale face and the way she focused on steadying her breathing, his priorities shifted. She exhausted herself for this case, using abilities that took a physical and emotional toll.
“You need to rest. You’ve done enough for today.”
“I’ll be fine once I’m back at the shop.” Her voice stayed weak. “The protective wards there will help restore my energy. It’s just the residual effects of strong negative emotions—they drain psychic sensitives.”
He couldn’t deny what he’d witnessed. Whether mystical or not, she had experienced something real and debilitating. And her insights, however derived, had led them to concrete proof.
“I’ll drop you at The Mystic Cup. Then I need to brief Chief Sullivan.”
“What I sensed will be confirmed.” Her eyes closed as she absorbed the car’s warmth. “Melissa Clarkson was held there. But they moved her before we arrived. The question now is where—and whether she’s still alive.”
He drove in silence, processing the day’s discoveries. Physical proof, Vivienne’s disturbing experience, Old Jack’s cryptic warnings about the location’s violent history. It pointed to something far more sinister than a simple missing persons case.
When they reached The Mystic Cup, she had recovered enough to walk inside on her own, though she moved with care. He waited until he saw lights come on in her apartment above the shop before driving back to the station.
Chief Sullivan waited in his office, Officer Daniels at his side. Brooks spread the bags across the desk and provided a detailed account of their findings, editing out the more inexplicable elements of what she’d experienced.
“So we have physical proof placing Melissa Clarkson there.” Sullivan examined the rope fibers and canvas samples. “But no sign of where they took her after that. Jack Thornton suggested the location has a history of violent incidents. He mentioned a vessel called the Mary Catherine that sank there in 1987 under suspicious circumstances.”
Sullivan’s expression darkened. “The Mary Catherine. That case was before my time as chief, but I remember the rumors. Supposedly carrying contraband, though nothing was ever proven. The official report called it an accidental sinking.”
“Like Lily Morgan’s death was called an accidental drowning since they never found her body?”
“Exactly.” Sullivan leaned back in his chair, his face troubled. “The pattern is becoming impossible to ignore. The Aldrich family has been associated with this town’s darker incidents for generations. But they’re also one of the most powerful families in Westerly Cove. Going after them without ironclad proof would be career suicide—and possibly literal suicide, based on what happened to Chief Morrison and others who got too close.”
Frustration burned in his chest. “So what do we do? Wait for more while Melissa Clarkson remains missing?”
“No. We build our case with care, document everything, and bring in outside resources when we’re ready to move.” Sullivan met his eyes. “I’ve been waiting twenty-five years for someone with the skills and determination to expose what the Aldriches have been doing. I won’t let impatience ruin our chance at justice.”
“What about Vivienne Hawthorne? She’s been helping, providing insights that have led to concrete proof. But if the Aldriches realize how much she knows . . .”
“She’s in danger.” Sullivan’s tone turned grim. “The Hawthorne women have always been thorns in the Aldrich family’s side. If they perceive her as a threat—especially now that she’s working with law enforcement—they might move against her.”
Cold concern shot through his chest. She had exhausted herself today helping, had put herself in potential danger, had shared family knowledge that could make her a target. And he’d let her do it without considering the consequences.
