“Like I got hit by a truck driven by a homicidal mayor.” She winced adjusting her position. “They gave me something for the pain. Makes everything fuzzy around the edges.”
“Good. You need to rest.”
“I know. I will.” Her eyes tracked his face, that unsettling way she had of seeing past surfaces. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“I don’t.” Her uninjured hand reached for his. “Stay. Please.”
Brooks took her hand, careful of the bandages. Her skin was cool, her pulse rapid under his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Machines beeped softly. Rain tapped against the window. Down the hall someone laughed, too loud for the hour.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” Vivienne finally spoke. “About losing faith in Austin. About coming here to escape.”
“Ancient history.”
“No. It’s not.” She squeezed his hand. “You told me tonight that you lost your ability to trust your instincts. But Brooks, your instincts saved my life. You knew when to move, when to shoot, when to trust what I was telling you even though it shouldn’t have been possible.”
“That was different. That was you.”
“It was us.” Her eyes held his. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You didn’t lose your instincts—you just stopped trusting them because the last time you did, someone died. But tonight you trusted them again. Trusted me. And we both lived.”
Brooks wanted to argue, to explain that what happened with Traci was different, that he’d had all the information and still made the wrong call. But the words stuck in his throat.
Because Vivienne was right. He’d trusted his gut tonight. Felt her calling to him, felt the moment to shoot, felt every choice click into place with a certainty he hadn’t experienced since that warehouse in Austin.
“I don’t know how to explain what happened between us,” he said finally. “Three weeks ago I thought psychics were either frauds or delusional. Now I’ve got your voice in my head and I can feel when you’re afraid even when you’re not with me. That’s not in any of my training manuals.”
“Good. If it was in a manual, it wouldn’t be real.” Vivienne’s thumb moved against his palm. “The Hawthorne gift isn’t something you can learn or fake. It either is or it isn’t. And what you’re experiencing—what we’re both experiencing—that’s real.Maybe you don’t have the full gift my family carries, but you have something. An openness to it. A sensitivity you didn’t know you had.”
“Or didn’t want to admit I had.”
“Maybe that too.” She smiled, though exhaustion shadowed her features. “My grandmother saw it in you when you were thirteen. That’s why she gave you the protection charm for your mom, why she told you you’d come back. She knew you had the potential.”
Brooks thought about that day. The terrible summer after his uncle died, his mother crying every night, his father silent and withdrawn. They’d driven up the coast trying to outrun grief, and somehow Brooks had wandered into The Mystic Cup. He remembered the old woman with gray-green eyes—Vivienne’s eyes—who’d looked at him like she could see straight through to his bones.
You’ll come back when you need to find something you’ve lost,she’d said.
At the time he’d thought she meant his uncle. Now he understood she’d meant himself.
“Your grandmother was something else.”
“She was.” Vivienne’s voice went soft. “I wish you could have known her better. She would have liked seeing us work together. Seeing you open yourself to possibilities.”
“I’m still not sure what I’ve opened myself to.”
“Neither am I. But we’ll figure it out.” Her eyes started to droop, the medication pulling her toward sleep. “Together.”
“Together,” Brooks agreed.
He sat with her as she drifted off, her hand still holding his. When her breathing deepened and her grip relaxed, he carefully extracted his hand and settled back in the chair. He should go home, shower, change clothes, maybe catch an hour of sleep before dawn. But he stayed.
Through the window, the lighthouse was visible in the distance, dark against the pre-dawn sky. No beacon. No light. Just stone standing against the ocean.
How many secrets had that structure held? How many lives had it touched across generations? Mathilde helping design it. Lily dying in it. Winston using it to build his empire. And Vivienne, who’d nearly died there tonight but had instead helped bring it peace.
Brooks pulled out his phone and typed a message to Agent Porter:At hospital with Vivienne. Will need to give full statement in the morning. Winston secure?
