The town began takingsides the morning after Brooks and Vivienne discovered evidence in the hidden cove. Outside The Mystic Cup’s windows, Vivienne watched the division crystallize. The Hendersons packed their car, their teenage son casting nervous glances toward the harbor. Three doors down, the Kowalskis hammered a hand-painted sign into their lawn: “We Stand With the Truth.”
The divide showed itself everywhere. Some doorframes displayed protective symbols—salt lines, iron nails, sprigs of rowan tied with red thread. Others mounted security cameras and motion lights, their faith placed in technology rather than tradition.
Inside the shop, business had become unpredictable. Some customers avoided her entirely, crossing the street rather than pass her door. Others sought her out specifically, wanting to book her for readings, offering support or information or simply their presence.
Dawn returned mid-morning after her job with a box of pastries from Mrs. Mayer’s bakery.
“Are mine not good enough?” Vivienne asked her cousin as she took out a warm, Boston Cream doughnut.
“Sometimes you need different,” Dawn said as she carried the box to the kitchen. Out of sight of customers. She returned with a maple doughnut in her hand. “You’re holding a séance tonight. I’ve already spread the word.”
“Dawn—”
“The town needs this, Viv. People need to understand what you’re trying to do, that you’re helping Brooks find the truth about your mom, Lily, and the others. Right now, half the town thinks you’re a charlatan taking advantage of tragedy, and the other half thinks you’re meddling in things best left alone.”
Vivienne considered her cousin’s words. Dawn was right—the community needed to see that her abilities served justice, not sensationalism. And more practically, a public gathering might draw out information people had been too afraid to share.
“All right. Tonight at eight. But we do this properly—respectful, focused on finding answers.”
“I’ll help you prepare.” Dawn pulled out her phone. “I’ll text Martha, Gunner from the harbor master’s office, maybe Mrs. Mayer from the bakery. People who’ve always suspected something was wrong but never had a voice.”
They spent the afternoon preparing the back room, creating space for a proper circle. Vivienne retrieved her grandmother’s tools—candles blessed for clarity, salt for protection, iron filings to ground the energy. This wouldn’t be theatrical performance. This would be genuine communication with spirits who wanted justice.
Brooks arrived as she was arranging the final elements.
“I heard you’re holding a séance tonight.” He didn’t sound disapproving, just cautious.
“The spirits have more to tell us. Lily especially. Her mother needs closure. A lot of us do.”
“You think she’ll communicate tonight?”
“I know she will. She’s been waiting twenty-five years for someone to listen.” Vivienne studied Brooks’s face, noting the exhaustion but also the openness that hadn’t been there when they’d first met. “You can observe if you’d like. I won’t be offended if you’d rather stay away.”
“I want to be here.” The words came quickly, surprising them both. “Not as a skeptic anymore. As . . . support. And because you might learn something that helps the investigation.”
Warmth spread through Vivienne’s chest. Weeks ago, he would have mocked the very idea of attending a séance. Now he stood in her shop offering partnership, maybe even something more.
“Thank you.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Then the shop bell chimed.
A man entered—mid-thirties, sandy brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, expensive but rumpled clothing that showed the wear of recent stress. He looked around the shop with an expression that combined relief and uncertainty.
“Detective Harrington,” he said. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I’m Daniel Clarkson. Melissa’s husband,” he said to Vivienne.
Vivienne felt that familiar prickle of intuition immediately. Something about this man set off warning bells she couldn’t quite identify.
Brooks straightened, his expression professionally neutral. “Mr. Clarkson. I’m glad Melissa’s been reunited with you. How is she doing?”
“Still pretty shaken up. The doctors want to keep her under observation for another day or two.” Daniel’s hand moved to his wedding ring, twisting it. “I wanted to thank you both personally. Ms. Hawthorne, I understand you were instrumental in finding her.”
“I helped where I could,” Vivienne said carefully, studying him. His gratitude appeared genuine, but underneath she sensed something else. Anxiety? Fear? She couldn’t quite place it.
“The FBI has been asking me a lot of questions about our marriage, about Melissa’s research.” His voice carried a note of frustration. “I don’t understand why they’re treating me like a suspect when I’m the victim’s husband.”
Brooks’s tone remained even. “Standard procedure in cases like this, Mr. Clarkson. We have to investigate all angles.”
“I suppose.” Daniel’s gaze shifted to Vivienne, assessing. “Can you really communicate with spirits? Or is it more of a . . . intuition thing?”
