Brooks was already texting Sullivan. “I’m pulling Old Jack in for questioning tomorrow. He knows everyone who works the harbor.”
“Good. And Brooks?” Vivienne touched his arm. “Thank you. For trusting what I saw.”
“I learned my lesson about dismissing your visions.” He covered her hand with his. “We’re partners. That means I trust your gifts the same way you trust my investigative work.”
She felt the bond they’d forged in the lighthouse, strengthened through weeks of working together. His determination, his protectiveness, his faith in her abilities.
“I should let you get back to work,” she said, though she didn’t want him to leave.
“I’m off shift. And I don’t want you alone tonight, not with prophetic visions warning about danger.” Brooks glanced toward her sitting room. “Mind if I stay? I can sleep on your couch.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His expression was serious. “Something’s coming, Vivienne. You felt it, I feel it. Until we know what it is, I’d rather be here.”
She should say no. Should maintain boundaries.
Instead she nodded. “I’ll get you pillows and blankets.”
They spent the evening researching—Brooks pulling up missing persons reports from the harbor area, Vivienne searching through her family’s archives. By midnight they’d identified three suspicious deaths over the past decade, all women, all found in the harbor under circumstances ruled accidental.
“Could be a serial killer,” Brooks said.
“Or supernatural. The harbor’s old, Brooks. Built on land where the indigenous peoples had sacred sites. Mathilde wrote about strange currents and unexplained drownings even back in the 1920s.”
“So we’re looking at either a human killer or something supernatural that’s been claiming victims for a century.”
“Welcome to Westerly Cove.” Vivienne closed the grimoire. “Where the answer is usually both.”
She set up the couch with blankets while Brooks called Sullivan. When he finished, the apartment had settled into quiet.
“Get some sleep,” Brooks said. “I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
Vivienne paused in her bedroom doorway. “Brooks? I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
She left the door cracked. Through the gap she could see him settling on the couch, his badge and weapon set carefully on the side table.
He’d stayed. Chosen to be here, protecting her even when the threat was vague.
Vivienne pulled her mother’s journal from her nightstand and opened to a marked passage:
The gift flourishes with proper support. Alone, we burn out. Together with our anchors, we can sustain ourselves indefinitely. V. must not make my mistake. When her match comes, she must let him stay.
Her mother had seen this. Had known Vivienne would need someone who could handle her world without fear. Had written it down seventeen years ago.
Vivienne set the journal aside and tried to sleep. But her mind kept returning to Brooks on her couch, to the vision of the drowning woman, to the sense that everything was about to change again.
The next three days passed in vigilance.
Brooks increased harbor patrols. Old Jack reported suspicious activity—a man asking questions about women who worked the fishing boats, someone lurking near the docks after dark. But no one matching the description from Vivienne’s vision.
On the fourth night, Vivienne woke with her pendant burning.
She grabbed her phone. Three a.m. The vision had been clear—nighttime, moonlight on water.
Tonight.
