vivienne
The lighthouse pulledher forward along the cliff side path.
Vivienne had closed The Mystic Cup early, hanging a handwritten sign on the door that read “Family Emergency” before rushing upstairs to change. Jeans, a thick sweater, and sturdy hiking shoes replaced her vintage dress and delicate boots.
Family emergency. The phrase rang true. The Hawthornes had served as guardians of Westerly Cove across the years. When the beacon called with such urgency, she had to answer.
The moment she’d heard about Melissa Clarkson’s disappearance, the visions had intensified. Images flashed through her mind—a blue scarf caught on jagged rocks, handprints on cold stone walls, water rising in a narrow passage. This case called to her abilities in ways she couldn’t ignore.
About twenty people milled around the parking area when she arrived. She recognized most of them—locals receiving instructions from a stocky man with salt and pepper hair. Chief Sullivan. His police uniform bore the comfortable appearance of daily wear, and he carried himself with the quiet authority ofsomeone who’d served his community. Chief Sullivan was well liked and well respected in Westerly Cove.
Detective Harrington stood apart from the group, notebook in hand, scanning the crowd. He assessed each volunteer with the same skepticism he’d shown her at The Mystic Cup.
She adjusted the silver pendant at her throat and approached. Many nodded greetings—Mrs. Truman from the library, the Peterson brothers who ran the hardware store, young Jamie Walsh who worked at the marina. The Hawthornes had helped their families over the years, finding lost heirlooms, providing comfort after deaths, offering guidance during difficult times. Small towns remembered such kindnesses.
“Miss Hawthorne,” Velta Wright from the book club called. “Thank goodness you’re here. If anyone can help find that poor woman, it’s you.”
Margaret Holloway stepped forward. “My grandmother always said your grandmother could find anything that was lost. People, objects, even the truth when folks tried to hide it.”
“Your mother searched for answers too.” Tom Brennan, the harbormaster, kept his voice low. “Just want you to be careful out there. Some secrets are too dangerous to uncover.”
She appreciated the warning. The women in her family had always walked carefully between helping the community and protecting themselves from those who would exploit their gifts.
“We will split into four groups to cover all approaches.” Chief Sullivan’s voice carried across the parking area. “The Coast Guard is handling the water search. Remember, Melissa Clarkson is thirty-four, blond, about five foot six, last seen wearing hiking boots, khaki pants, and a blue jacket.”
Old Jack Thornton emerged from behind his battered pickup truck, shaking his head. “Dead fish have been washing up since dawn. Wrong patterns, wrong tides. Harbor’s rejectingsomething it doesn’t want.” His old, tired eyes found Vivienne’s. “I’ve seen this before. Twenty-five years back.”
She matched this description with the fragmented images she had received. The blue scarf made sense now—an accessory to the blue jacket. But some details were misaligned. The figure atop the tower in her vision had dark hair, not blond. Perhaps the spirits were showing her both the current situation and an old case together.
As the detective approached, Vivienne stood up straighter. “I’m Detective Brooks Harrington. I would like to interview everyone who’s participated in the search.”
When he reached her position, his expression shifted. A surge of energy flowed between them. She wasn’t sure if Brooks felt it or not, but she certainly did. Vivienne took a step back, just in case. She already suspected she turned him off with the out-of-the-blue statements she made earlier. No need to add more weirdness to his plate.
“Miss Hawthorne.” His tone was cooler than it had been at The Mystic Cup. “I need your contact information for the investigation.”
She provided it without comment.
“And you’re here because . . .?”
“To help search. Same as everyone else.”
He made a note in his book. “Right. Well, if you find any actual evidence, contact the department immediately. Don’t touch it, don’t move it.”
“I understand proper evidence handling, Detective.”
He nodded and moved on to the next volunteer without another glance. Exactly as skeptical as she expected him to be. At least Chief Sullivan allowed her to help.
The chief assigned search areas, and she positioned herself to join the group heading directly to the grounds. This placed herin the same sector as Detective Harrington, who had apparently drawn this duty for his first day.
“We should head up.” Chief Sullivan checked his watch. “Still got maybe three hours of good daylight left.”
The group began the steep climb along the paved access road. She hung back, opening her senses to any impressions from the surrounding area.
The tower demanded her attention, a deep pull originating from her bones. Each step forward intensified the sensation until her entire body resonated with the need to reach it. The connection that had always existed between her family and this place had strengthened—the structure itself called her home.
She kept her breathing steady, maintaining control. Grandmother Emmeline had taught her techniques to channel her gift without becoming overwhelmed, especially in public situations.
“The husband says she was researching New England lighthouses for a book.” Chief Sullivan explained to Detective Harrington as they walked. “Been visiting several up and down the coast. Ours was next on her list. Said she wanted to take some photos at sunset, get the full effect of the beam against the darkening sky.”
