Chapter 3 - Vivienne #2
As they resumed their path toward the looming white tower, the familiar compulsion she felt grew stronger.
It had always affected her more intensely here than any other location in Westerly Cove because of her family’s deep historical connection to this place.
Today, that connection pressed against her with unusual strength, the stone itself vibrating with memories.
She observed Detective Harrington as he walked ahead, noting the efficiency in his movements. His organized approach was at odds with her intuitive methods. They were going to clash on this case.
The keeper’s cottage came into view, a modest stone building connected to the main tower. Now functioning as a small museum, it contained displays about the history and the various keepers who had maintained it over the decades. Chief Sullivan used his keys to unlock the door.
Inside, period furniture, navigation equipment, and historical photographs filled the space. Information placards described the construction in 1853, the various keepers who had served over the years, and the maritime history of Westerly Cove.
She carefully moved through the space, with her senses on alert for any impressions.
The building held layers of history, generations of lives lived within these walls.
Most of the emotional residue was neutral, the everyday experiences of people going about their work.
But underneath, something darker pulsed—fear, violence, things deliberately hidden.
“Looking for something specific?” Harrington watched her pause at various displays, her hand hovering near objects without touching them.
“Not sure yet.”
“That’s helpful.”
“You asked.”
He made a note in his book. “In case you find more ‘evidence,’ try to have a reason for where you’re looking.”
She started to respond, but Chief Sullivan interrupted. “The husband mentioned Melissa was particularly interested in the history during the 1920s. Said she’d been asking questions about smuggling operations during Prohibition.”
This piqued her attention. The 1920s. The era when her great-great-grandmother Mathilde had still been alive, when this place had been central to .
. . what? Family stories were vague about that period, deliberately so.
Grandmother Emmeline had always changed the subject when she asked about Mathilde’s final years.
“Relevant to the case how?” Brooks asked.
“Context. Understanding the history of a place can reveal patterns others miss,” Vivienne said quietly as she continued to look around the museum. She didn’t wait to see if Brooks had a witty comeback before walking away.
The chief called everyone to the back room which housed the small research area.
A desk with an old computer, filing cabinets, and bookshelves filled with logbooks and historical documents occupied the cramped space.
Nothing appeared disturbed, but when she entered, her gaze was drawn to the corner of a photograph peeking out from beneath the desk.
She knelt and retrieved it, mindful of Harrington’s emphasis on evidence handling.
The photo showed the structure from a distance, taken from the water, with a strange light visible at the top that didn’t match the normal beam pattern.
The back bore a smudged date that appeared to be from the late 1990s and what looked like the initials “L.M.” partially obscured by water damage.
Her pulse quickened. Those initials tugged at her memory. “L.M.”
Chief Sullivan came up behind her. She handed him the photograph. He’d done the same as her, turned it over, examined the back, and then looked at it again. “This looks old. Wonder if it belongs to the museum collection.”
Her mind made the connection. “Do you think the L.M stands for Lily Morgan? Could these be her initials? The teenager who disappeared around twenty-five years ago?”
Harrington looked up sharply. “Who’s Lily Morgan?”
Chief Sullivan’s expression darkened. “Lily was seventeen when she vanished while researching the lighthouse for a school project. October 1999. We searched for weeks—never found a trace.” He examined the photo. “How is this here? We went through this place top to bottom back then.”
“Maybe Melissa found it during her research.” Vivienne’s unease grew. “And someone took it from her.”
The implications weighed heavily in the air. If Melissa Clarkson had found this photograph during her research, if she had somehow connected her work to Lily Morgan’s disappearance, it could explain why she had gone missing in the same location.
“Chief,” one of the firefighters called from the main room. “We found something else.”
They returned to find the man pointing at the floorboards near the entrance to the tower itself. A small area of discoloration was visible, easily missed but distinct upon closer inspection.
“That looks like blood.” Harrington knelt to examine it. “Fresh, too. Within the last day or so.”
Images flashed through her mind—not the overwhelming sensation from the scarf, but clear, precise pictures. A woman backing away in fear. A masculine figure advancing. The sharp edge of something metal reflecting lamplight.
“She was attacked here. Melissa Clarkson came here looking for answers about Lily Morgan, and someone followed her.”
Chief Sullivan’s jaw tightened. He’d seen her grandmother work cases, knew better than to dismiss what she said. “Harrington, call forensics. We need this processed immediately.”
“We need to test that blood for DNA first.” Harrington stood. “Before we jump to conclusions about attacks.”
“Not jumping to conclusions, Detective. Following leads.” Sullivan’s tone left no room for argument. “Miss Hawthorne has helped solve three cases in neighboring counties. Her insights have value.”
Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of insights?”
“The kind that find missing persons.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Sullivan reached for his radio to call in the discovery and request forensic assistance. While he coordinated with dispatch, Harrington moved closer to her.
“What exactly do you do?” His voice was low, direct.
“I notice things others miss.”
“Like lucky guesses about where evidence is hidden?”
“Like patterns. Connections.” She met his gaze. “Things that don’t add up.”
“You found that button in tall grass. The scarf hidden in bushes. Now you’re telling us this is an attack scene.” He crossed his arms. “That’s not noticing. That’s something else.”
“Call it intuition.”
“Intuition doesn’t lead you straight to evidence in a search area with twenty other people.”
Brooks stared at Vivienne for a long moment. Her gaze never wavered. She would let him think whatever he wanted about her, but eventually he would ask her what she was, and she’d tell him. It would be up to Brooks whether to believe in her and her craft or not.
“That photograph showing up here after twenty-five years is suspicious. But jumping to conclusions about attacks and connections to old cases—that’s exactly the kind of thinking that derails investigations.”
“And dismissing potentially valuable insights because they don’t fit your narrow definition of evidence is exactly the kind of thinking that leaves cases unsolved.”
Their eyes met in a moment of antagonism before a call came from outside.
“Chief! We found another blood trail leading toward the hidden cove!”
They hurried outside to where one of the search team members pointed to small, easily missed droplets of blood on the rough path leading away, toward the less frequented southern end of the promontory.
“The hidden cove?” Harrington had his notebook ready.
“Local name for a small beach accessible only by a difficult path or by boat.” Chief Sullivan gestured toward the trail. “Not on most maps, barely visible from the water unless you know exactly where to look.”
“I know the way. It will be faster if I lead you there,” Vivienne stated, then began walking.
The chief hesitated, seeming reluctant to put a civilian at the front of what was potentially becoming a crime scene investigation. But time was critical if Melissa Clarkson was injured, and the blood trail suggested urgency.
Harrington looked skeptical. “How convenient that . . .” he paused and looked like he was searching for the right words. He shook head. “Of course you know where all the hidden locations are.”
“I grew up here, Detective. My great-great-great grandmother lived in the keeper’s quarters before she moved into the house where you enjoyed coffee this morning.
I know every trail, every beach, every cave along this coastline.
Most of us do,” she paused and looked at the search team.
“And I believe the word you’re looking for is psychic. That’s what I am.”
Vivienne looked at Chief Sullivan for an answer. She had stopped caring a long time ago about what people thought of her.
“Fine.” Chief Sullivan nodded reluctantly. “But stay close and follow instructions if we find anything.”
She was already moving toward the narrow trail that wound through dense coastal vegetation down the steep cliff face. She knew this path intimately, having explored it countless times since childhood. The hidden cove had always been a place of refuge and reflection for her.
Today, however, it might hold more than solitude.
As she led the group down the treacherous path, she felt the presence behind them, its silent witness to whatever was about to be uncovered. The spirits had guided her to the button and the photograph. They wanted the truth to emerge, wanted justice for the crimes committed in their sacred spaces.
By the time they reached the rocky beach, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Chief Sullivan called for additional backup, his radio crackling with static as he coordinated the expanded search. Harrington remained focused on documenting the scene, taking photographs and making notes.
The search would continue into the evening, but Vivienne already knew they wouldn’t find Melissa Clarkson here. The spirits had shown her enough to understand that the missing woman was somewhere else entirely, somewhere connected to the hidden history.
She watched Harrington crouch near a rock formation, examining it with careful attention before dismissing it.
Evidence, procedure, documented facts—that was his world.
Hers operated on different principles. Spirits, visions, centuries of family knowledge passed down through generations of women.
He’d called her finds coincidence. Lucky guesses.
He didn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain without sounding exactly as he suspected—delusional or a fraud.
But Melissa Clarkson was still missing, and that was what mattered. Whether Brooks Harrington believed in her methods or not, she would continue following the trail.
Hours later, alone in her kitchen, she sat at her grandmother’s old wooden table, hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea.
The events of the day had drained her more than usual—the visions had been vivid, demanding.
What they’d revealed sat heavy in her chest. Somewhere a woman remained in danger.
The new detective’s skepticism had been predictable but still irritating.
His dismissal of her insights despite the evidence she’d helped uncover was familiar—the same rigid thinking she’d encountered before.
The kind that missed what was hidden in plain sight, the kind that let secrets fester for generations.
The scarf’s memory still occupied her thoughts. Not otherworldly terror, but the very human fear of someone who had discovered a terrible secret and realized too late that knowledge could be deadly. Melissa Clarkson was alive; she was certain of that. But for how long, she didn’t know.
Vivienne decided she would visit Martha Morgan with or without Detective Harrington’s approval. Lily’s mother might have more information that connected these cases. The investigation would continue, parallel to but separate from the official search. As it always did in Westerly Cove.
The official investigation could proceed with its evidence and documentation. She would follow the trail the spirits provided, whether the detective approved or not.