Chapter 3 - Vivienne
THREE
vivienne
The lighthouse pulled her 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 of someone 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 rejecting something 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 her in 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.”
“And he let her go alone?”
“Says she goes off hiking and exploring alone all the time. Independent type. When she didn’t return for dinner, he started calling around, then reported her missing around six last night.”
She listened with half her attention. The compulsion drew her north toward the cliff edge, where the maintained grounds gave way to wild grass and unstable earth. She didn’t announce her deviation, simply drifted away from the group, following the insistent guidance.
The grass grew longer here, whispering against her jeans as she moved toward the cliff edge. The salt air intensified, carrying the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks below. Seagulls cried overhead, their calls mixing with the distant foghorn from a passing ship.
Her hand closed around something small caught in the grass. It was a button from a woman’s jacket, navy blue with an anchor design. Fear, confusion, someone grabbing her arm roughly, the button tearing free during a struggle—took over Vivienne’s being.
“I found something.”
Detective Harrington rushed toward her with an evidence bag in his gloved hand. “Don’t touch it further. Where exactly did you find it?”
She pointed to the precise location, stepping back to give him room to document and collect the evidence. Whatever he thought about her methods, he took the physical investigation seriously.
“Interesting.” He sealed the button. “This matches the description of her jacket.”
A few yards further, partially hidden beneath wild roses that grew along the cliff edge, she spotted fabric. Blue with silver threads, exactly as her vision had shown. The scarf.
“Detective.” She pointed toward the roses.
Harrington joined her, his demeanor sharpening as he observed the scarf caught on the thorny bushes. He photographed it from multiple angles before carefully extracting it.
The moment his fingers closed around the fabric, a vision surged through the space between them—so powerful that she gasped. Terror. Desperate fear. The sensation of falling, then nothing.
She stumbled backward, and his hand shot out to steady her, his grip firm on her elbow. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Her pulse raced. The revelation had been intense, more vivid than usual. “Just . . . the cliff edge is unstable.”
She forced herself to focus on the physical evidence. “The signs warning visitors to stay on marked paths exist for good reason.” She pointed to a section of ground where the grass appeared disturbed, the earth crumbled at the edge.
He studied the area. “She could have slipped. But where is she now? If she fell from here, her body should be visible somewhere below.”
“Unless the tide took her,” one of the firefighters suggested.
Chief Sullivan shook his head. “Tide was out last night when she disappeared. Would have been a mostly dry beach down there.” He pulled out his radio to report their findings and request a more thorough search of the cliff base.
While the men discussed retrieval procedures, she closed her eyes, extending her senses beyond the physical realm.
The pendant at her throat warmed against her skin.
Melissa Clarkson had been here, yes, but the impression felt wrong.
Incomplete. Someone had placed the scarf rather than it being accidentally dropped—left as a false clue to suggest an accidental fall.
Harrington moved closer, his voice low. “You found both pieces of evidence. How?”
“I pay attention.”
“To what, exactly?”
“Details. Things out of place.” She met his gaze. “Same as you.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Not the same at all.”
Before she could respond, Chief Sullivan called them toward the structure itself. “Let’s continue to the building while they process the cliff scene.”