Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
vivienne
The town began taking sides the morning after Brooks and Vivienne discovered evidence in the hidden cove.
Outside The Mystic Cup’s windows, Vivienne watched the division crystallize.
The Hendersons packed their car, their teenage son casting nervous glances toward the harbor.
Three doors down, the Kowalskis hammered a hand-painted sign into their lawn: “We Stand With the Truth.”
The divide showed itself everywhere. Some doorframes displayed protective symbols—salt lines, iron nails, sprigs of rowan tied with red thread. Others mounted security cameras and motion lights, their faith placed in technology rather than tradition.
Inside the shop, business had become unpredictable. Some customers avoided her entirely, crossing the street rather than pass her door. Others sought her out specifically, wanting to book her for readings, offering support or information or simply their presence.
Dawn returned mid-morning after her job with a box of pastries from Mrs. Mayer’s bakery.
“Are mine not good enough?” Vivienne asked her cousin as she took out a warm, Boston Cream doughnut.
“Sometimes you need different,” Dawn said as she carried the box to the kitchen. Out of sight of customers. She returned with a maple doughnut in her hand. “You’re holding a séance tonight. I’ve already spread the word.”
“Dawn—”
“The town needs this, Viv. People need to understand what you’re trying to do, that you’re helping Brooks find the truth about your mom, Lily, and the others.
Right now, half the town thinks you’re a charlatan taking advantage of tragedy, and the other half thinks you’re meddling in things best left alone. ”
Vivienne considered her cousin’s words. Dawn was right—the community needed to see that her abilities served justice, not sensationalism. And more practically, a public gathering might draw out information people had been too afraid to share.
“All right. Tonight at eight. But we do this properly—respectful, focused on finding answers.”
“I’ll help you prepare.” Dawn pulled out her phone. “I’ll text Martha, Gunner from the harbor master’s office, maybe Mrs. Mayer from the bakery. People who’ve always suspected something was wrong but never had a voice.”
They spent the afternoon preparing the back room, creating space for a proper circle.
Vivienne retrieved her grandmother’s tools—candles blessed for clarity, salt for protection, iron filings to ground the energy.
This wouldn’t be theatrical performance.
This would be genuine communication with spirits who wanted justice.
Brooks arrived as she was arranging the final elements.
“I heard you’re holding a séance tonight.” He didn’t sound disapproving, just cautious.
“The spirits have more to tell us. Lily especially. Her mother needs closure. A lot of us do.”
“You think she’ll communicate tonight?”
“I know she will. She’s been waiting twenty-five years for someone to listen.” Vivienne studied Brooks’s face, noting the exhaustion but also the openness that hadn’t been there when they’d first met. “You can observe if you’d like. I won’t be offended if you’d rather stay away.”
“I want to be here.” The words came quickly, surprising them both. “Not as a skeptic anymore. As . . . support. And because you might learn something that helps the investigation.”
Warmth spread through Vivienne’s chest. Weeks ago, he would have mocked the very idea of attending a séance. Now he stood in her shop offering partnership, maybe even something more.
“Thank you.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Then the shop bell chimed.
A man entered—mid-thirties, sandy brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, expensive but rumpled clothing that showed the wear of recent stress. He looked around the shop with an expression that combined relief and uncertainty.
“Detective Harrington,” he said. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I’m Daniel Clarkson. Melissa’s husband,” he said to Vivienne.
Vivienne felt that familiar prickle of intuition immediately. Something about this man set off warning bells she couldn’t quite identify.
Brooks straightened, his expression professionally neutral. “Mr. Clarkson. I’m glad Melissa’s been reunited with you. How is she doing?”
“Still pretty shaken up. The doctors want to keep her under observation for another day or two.” Daniel’s hand moved to his wedding ring, twisting it. “I wanted to thank you both personally. Ms. Hawthorne, I understand you were instrumental in finding her.”
“I helped where I could,” Vivienne said carefully, studying him. His gratitude appeared genuine, but underneath she sensed something else. Anxiety? Fear? She couldn’t quite place it.
“The FBI has been asking me a lot of questions about our marriage, about Melissa’s research.” His voice carried a note of frustration. “I don’t understand why they’re treating me like a suspect when I’m the victim’s husband.”
Brooks’s tone remained even. “Standard procedure in cases like this, Mr. Clarkson. We have to investigate all angles.”
“I suppose.” Daniel’s gaze shifted to Vivienne, assessing. “Can you really communicate with spirits? Or is it more of a . . . intuition thing?”
The question felt like a test. Vivienne chose her words carefully. “I receive impressions from objects, places, sometimes from spirits who want to communicate. It’s not always clear or linear.”
“But you found my wife. So it works.” He pulled a small silver bracelet from his pocket. “This is Melissa’s. She left it at our hotel before she went missing. Could you . . . I don’t know, make sure there’s nothing we’re missing? Nothing the FBI should know about?”
Vivienne took the bracelet, and images flooded her mind immediately. But they weren’t what she expected. Arguments. Financial strain. Fear—not Melissa’s fear of the Aldriches, but Daniel’s fear of something being discovered. The emotions were jumbled, contradictory.
She set it down quickly. “I’m getting conflicting impressions. Sometimes recent trauma creates too much interference for clear readings.”
Daniel studied her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “But you sensed something.”
“Only confusion. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thank you for trying.” He turned back to Brooks. “When can I take Melissa home? Back to Portland? She needs to be away from this place.”
“That’s between her and her doctors,” Brooks said. “And the FBI may need her available for testimony.”
“Right. Of course.” Daniel glanced around the shop again, his eyes tracking details—the layout, the exits, the other customers browsing. “I should get back to the hospital. Just wanted to say thank you.”
After he left, Dawn emerged from the back room where she’d been arranging chairs.
“That man is lying,” Dawn said flatly.
“You felt it too?”
“I don’t have your gifts, but I have instincts. And my instincts say Melissa’s husband knows more than he’s telling.” Dawn crossed her arms. “You need to be careful tonight. If Daniel Clarkson is involved with whatever Melissa discovered, he might be working with the Aldriches.”
“I know. But we can’t prove anything yet. Just suspicions and bad feelings.”
“Your suspicions have been right about everything else so far,” Brooks added.
By evening, the back room had filled with participants.
Martha Morgan arrived first, her determination evident despite obvious exhaustion.
Gunner from the harbor master’s office came with his wife, both looking nervous but resolute.
Mrs. Mayer brought her sister, whose son had disappeared in a “boating accident” three years ago.
Velta Wright, who’d lost her husband to a suspicious fall from the lighthouse in 1995, sat quietly in the corner.
And to Vivienne’s surprise, old Jack from the docks hobbled in, his weathered face set in grim lines.
“Figured it was time I stopped pretending I didn’t see things,” he said. “Been watching boats come and go from that lighthouse for forty years. Seen plenty that didn’t make sense.”
Dawn took her position at the circle’s southern point while Vivienne stood at the north. Brooks remained in the main shop area, close enough to respond if anything went wrong but giving the participants space.
“Join hands,” Vivienne said softly. “We’re here to listen to those who died seeking truth. They want justice, not revenge. Stay calm no matter what you hear.”
The gathering began with her grandmother’s words, that old language resonating through the room. The temperature dropped several degrees. Candle flames steadied into perfect stillness.
And the spirits came.
Tunnels, Cordelia’s voice whispered. Foundation. False wall. Coal storage.
Images flooded Vivienne’s mind—a hidden chamber, old wooden crates, papers yellowed with age.
Morton. First National. 1987. Karl Kelly’s spirit added fragments, showing her safety deposit boxes, a bank manager’s nervous hands.
Jack gasped as his own brother’s spirit manifested—impressions rather than words. A fisherman. Midnight. Weighted body. Deep channel. Two others still there.
The information came in flashes, fragments, feelings more than language. Names, dates, locations—but never in complete sentences, never in linear narrative. Vivienne translated as best she could, her voice steady as she conveyed what the spirits showed her.
Camera, Lily’s spirit finally communicated, her presence stronger than the others. A vision: photographs of shipping manifests, artifacts, Winston and his father. A hidden chamber. Everything preserved.
Martha sobbed quietly, but she didn’t break the circle. Velta squeezed her hand in support.
Then Lily’s spirit pressed harder, more urgent. Images of Daniel. Wrong. False. Working for them. Reporting. Melissa discovered. Ran.
The revelation pressed hard against her chest. Vivienne’s eyes snapped open, meeting Dawn’s horrified gaze across the circle.
Danger, Lily’s presence burned with warning. He’s watching. Waiting.
The séance ended as the spirits withdrew, leaving Vivienne drained but transfixed by the urgency of what they’d shown her.
Brooks appeared in the doorway before she could call for him.
“What did you learn?”
“My earlier assessment of Daniel is spot on, Brooks. He knows more than he’s telling you.
Thre are more locations where they hid evidence.
The spirits showed me additional storage sites—places even the Aldriches might have forgotten about after all these years.
” Vivienne accepted the water Dawn handed her.
“The physical evidence we already found is just the beginning. There’s more. So much more.”
Brooks made notes. “The FBI will want to know about any additional locations. This could help us identify more victims, recover more stolen artifacts.”
“There’s also something about the financial records. The spirits kept showing me banks, multiple institutions, not just Morton at First National. They spread their money around.”
Everyone, including Brooks, left. Dawn and Vivienne continued to clean up, but both women worked with nervous energy, aware that they’d just exposed information that could make them targets.
“I don’t like how exposed you are here,” Dawn said, gathering candles. “Even with all Grandmother’s protective symbols.”
“I know. But this is where the work needs to happen.”
They were gathering the last of the candles when Vivienne felt it—that prickle of awareness that meant someone was watching. Through the window, she caught movement across the street. A figure, half-hidden in shadow. Not Daniel’s build. Someone else.
“Dawn.” Her voice stayed steady despite the chill running down her spine. “Someone’s outside.”
Dawn moved to the window, peering carefully around the edge. “I see them. Should we call Brooks?”
“He’s probably still at the station.” Vivienne continued packing supplies, refusing to let fear control her movements. “But yes, call him.”
While Dawn made the call, Vivienne moved through the shop, checking locks, closing curtains. The protective symbols her grandmother had carved into the doorframe seemed to catch the lamplight differently tonight, as if responding to the threat outside.
The figure across the street didn’t move. Just watched. Waited.
When Brooks arrived ten minutes later with a patrol car, the watcher had vanished. But they all knew the truth—the Aldriches network was aware of what Vivienne was doing, aware that she was helping to dismantle their empire. They wouldn’t wait passively for exposure.
“Pack a bag,” Brooks said. “You’re staying in protective custody tonight or a safe house. Whatever we have here. Someplace with twenty-four-hour security.”
Vivienne didn’t argue. The Hawthorne women had always known this moment would come—when helping the dead seek justice would put the living in mortal danger.
As they left through the back entrance, she cast one last look at her shop. Brooks’s hand stayed at the small of her back as they moved through the alley toward his car. Dawn followed close behind, her presence a small comfort.
They were so close to exposing everything now.