Chapter 18 Brooks
EIGHTEEN
brooks
The hospital waiting room smelled of industrial disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Brooks sat in a plastic chair that dug into his shoulder blades, watching rain streak down the windows. Three a.m. The dead hour when exhaustion made everything feel unreal. Across from him, Sullivan dozed with his chin on his chest, coffee cooling in his hand.
They’d been here for two hours while doctors examined Vivienne.
Bruised ribs, possible concussion, lacerations on her wrists from the zip ties, that split lip Winston had given her.
The physical damage was straightforward.
What worried Brooks was the other kind—the toll using her abilities had taken.
He’d seen her collapse in the tunnels weeks ago after that episode with Lily’s spirit.
Watched her shake and go pale after touching objects that carried too much death.
Tonight she’d pushed herself further than ever before, reaching across the space between them with enough force that he’d felt her thoughts in his head.
When I drop, shoot.
Clear as if she’d spoken aloud. Clearer, maybe, because it had bypassed his ears entirely and gone straight into his mind.
Brooks rubbed his eyes. A month ago he would have called this exhaustion talking, his brain trying to rationalize split-second timing as something supernatural.
But he knew what he’d experienced. Knew it the same way he’d known Vivienne was in danger before his phone rang, the same way he’d sensed her fear choking him when Winston first grabbed her.
The connection was real. He just didn’t know what to do with that information.
“Detective Harrington?” A nurse appeared in the doorway, young and tired. “Ms. Hawthorne is asking for you.”
Brooks stood, his body protesting. His shoulder ached where he’d hit the lighthouse wall ducking Winston’s shot. Tomorrow he’d have bruises. Tonight he just needed to see Vivienne.
Sullivan jerked awake. “She okay?”
“Don’t know yet. She’s asking for me.” Brooks headed for the door. “Go home, Chief. Get some sleep. I’ll call when I know more.”
“You should sleep too.”
“I will. Once I see her.”
The nurse led him through sterile corridors to a private room at the end of the hall.
Before he reached the door, it opened and a woman stepped out—mid-thirties, with the same gray-green eyes as Vivienne but darker hair cut in a practical bob.
She wore jeans and a fleece jacket, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
Dawn. Vivienne’s cousin stopped when she saw him, her expression shifting from grief to something harder. Protective.
“Detective Harrington.”
“Ms. Hawthorne.” Brooks kept his voice neutral. “How is she?”
“Physically? She’ll heal. Bruised ribs, cuts, possible concussion.” Dawn crossed her arms. “But you’re asking the wrong question.”
“You’re right, I am. Where were you when she was kidnapped?”
Dawn’s smile faded. “I was on my way back to my house.”
Brooks waited for her to continue. Dawn signed. “Her abilities exhaust her. I can’t be here all the time to run interference. This trait our family has, it takes a lot of self-control. Don’t use her to advance your career.”
“I would never.”
“You will because it’ll become easy,” she said. “My cousin has spent nineteen years terrified she’ll end up like her mother. She’s built her entire life around managing her gift, keeping it controlled, never pushing too hard. Tonight she pushed harder than I’ve ever seen. For you.”
Brooks’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask her to—”
“She did it anyway. Because that’s who Vivienne is.
She’ll burn herself out trying to save people.
” Dawn’s eyes pinned him. “My grandmother saw something in you when you were a kid. Said you’d be Vivienne’s anchor.
But anchors are supposed to keep ships from drifting into dangerous waters, not drag them into storms.”
The words hit harder than Brooks expected. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying tread carefully with her heart, Detective.
She’s already halfway in love with you—I can see it.
And if you’re not prepared to be what she needs, if you’re still running from whatever happened in Texas, then you need to walk away now.
Before she gets hurt worse than any kidnapping could manage. ”
Brooks met her gaze. “I’m not running anymore.”
“Good. Because Vivienne doesn’t have anyone else who understands what she can do.
Our family’s small, and most of them ran from the gift like my father did.
I stayed, but I don’t have it—not really.
Just enough to know when something’s wrong.
” Dawn’s expression softened slightly. “She needs someone who can handle what she is without being afraid of it. Someone who won’t ask her to be less than she is. ”
“I would never—”
“I know. I can see that too.” Dawn glanced back at the hospital room door. “She’s asking for you. That means something. Don’t make her regret it.”
She walked past him toward the elevators, leaving Brooks standing in the hallway with her warning ringing in his ears.
Halfway in love with you.
Was it true? And if it was, what the hell was he supposed to do about it?
Brooks took a breath, steadied himself, and knocked softly before entering.
Vivienne sat propped against pillows, an IV in her left arm, her right wrist bandaged. Someone had cleaned the blood from her face and given her a hospital gown. She looked small in the bed, younger than thirty-six, and exhausted in a way that went bone-deep.
But when she saw him, she smiled.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Brooks pulled a chair close to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck driven by a homicidal mayor.” She winced adjusting her position. “They gave me something for the pain. Makes everything fuzzy around the edges.”
“Good. You need to rest.”
“I know. I will.” Her eyes tracked his face, that unsettling way she had of seeing past surfaces. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“I don’t.” Her uninjured hand reached for his. “Stay. Please.”
Brooks took her hand, careful of the bandages. Her skin was cool, her pulse rapid under his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Machines beeped softly. Rain tapped against the window. Down the hall someone laughed, too loud for the hour.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” Vivienne finally spoke. “About losing faith in Austin. About coming here to escape.”
“Ancient history.”
“No. It’s not.” She squeezed his hand. “You told me tonight that you lost your ability to trust your instincts. But Brooks, your instincts saved my life. You knew when to move, when to shoot, when to trust what I was telling you even though it shouldn’t have been possible.”
“That was different. That was you.”
“It was us.” Her eyes held his. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You didn’t lose your instincts—you just stopped trusting them because the last time you did, someone died. But tonight you trusted them again. Trusted me. And we both lived.”
Brooks wanted to argue, to explain that what happened with Traci was different, that he’d had all the information and still made the wrong call. But the words stuck in his throat.
Because Vivienne was right. He’d trusted his gut tonight. Felt her calling to him, felt the moment to shoot, felt every choice click into place with a certainty he hadn’t experienced since that warehouse in Austin.
“I don’t know how to explain what happened between us,” he said finally. “Three weeks ago I thought psychics were either frauds or delusional. Now I’ve got your voice in my head and I can feel when you’re afraid even when you’re not with me. That’s not in any of my training manuals.”
“Good. If it was in a manual, it wouldn’t be real.
” Vivienne’s thumb moved against his palm.
“The Hawthorne gift isn’t something you can learn or fake.
It either is or it isn’t. And what you’re experiencing—what we’re both experiencing—that’s real.
Maybe you don’t have the full gift my family carries, but you have something.
An openness to it. A sensitivity you didn’t know you had. ”
“Or didn’t want to admit I had.”
“Maybe that too.” She smiled, though exhaustion shadowed her features. “My grandmother saw it in you when you were thirteen. That’s why she gave you the protection charm for your mom, why she told you you’d come back. She knew you had the potential.”
Brooks thought about that day. The terrible summer after his uncle died, his mother crying every night, his father silent and withdrawn.
They’d driven up the coast trying to outrun grief, and somehow Brooks had wandered into The Mystic Cup.
He remembered the old woman with gray-green eyes—Vivienne’s eyes—who’d looked at him like she could see straight through to his bones.
You’ll come back when you need to find something you’ve lost, she’d said.
At the time he’d thought she meant his uncle. Now he understood she’d meant himself.
“Your grandmother was something else.”
“She was.” Vivienne’s voice went soft. “I wish you could have known her better. She would have liked seeing us work together. Seeing you open yourself to possibilities.”
“I’m still not sure what I’ve opened myself to.”
“Neither am I. But we’ll figure it out.” Her eyes started to droop, the medication pulling her toward sleep. “Together.”
“Together,” Brooks agreed.
He sat with her as she drifted off, her hand still holding his. When her breathing deepened and her grip relaxed, he carefully extracted his hand and settled back in the chair. He should go home, shower, change clothes, maybe catch an hour of sleep before dawn. But he stayed.
Through the window, the lighthouse was visible in the distance, dark against the pre-dawn sky. No beacon. No light. Just stone standing against the ocean.
How many secrets had that structure held? How many lives had it touched across generations? Mathilde helping design it. Lily dying in it. Winston using it to build his empire. And Vivienne, who’d nearly died there tonight but had instead helped bring it peace.
Brooks pulled out his phone and typed a message to Agent Porter: At hospital with Vivienne. Will need to give full statement in the morning. Winston secure?
The response came immediately: Winston in custody, being treated under guard. Full debrief at 0900. Get some rest, Detective.
Brooks set the phone aside. Rest. Right. As if his mind would let him sleep after tonight.
He thought about the moment Winston’s gun had been at Vivienne’s head. The ice that had formed in his gut, the absolute certainty that he couldn’t lose her. Not just because she was a witness or consultant. Because she’d become important in a way he hadn’t let anyone be important since Traci died.
Dangerous territory. Getting emotionally involved with someone you worked with never ended well. But then again, nothing about this case had followed normal patterns. Why should his feelings?
Feelings. Brooks rubbed his face. When had he started having feelings beyond professional respect?
Probably the moment she’d looked at him in The Mystic Cup three weeks ago and somehow known he was a detective before he’d said a word.
Or maybe in the tunnels when she’d trusted him to catch her after a vision nearly knocked her out.
Or tonight, when she’d reached for him across impossible distance and he’d answered.
A soft sound pulled him from his thoughts. Vivienne had turned in her sleep, her face creasing with discomfort. Brooks stood, moving to adjust her pillow. Her eyes opened briefly.
“You’re still here.”
“Told you I wasn’t leaving.”
“Good.” She closed her eyes again. “Your hand. I can still feel it. Even when you’re not touching me.”
Brooks froze. “What do you mean?”
But she was already asleep again, her breathing evening out.
He returned to his chair, turning her words over in his mind. She could still feel his hand. Feel him, even when they weren’t physically connected.
The connection they’d forged tonight—it wasn’t fading. If anything, it was settling in, becoming part of how they related to each other. He could sense her presence in the room even with his eyes closed, could tell when she shifted from deep sleep to lighter dreaming.
This was either the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him, or he’d finally cracked under the pressure of too much trauma and not enough processing.
Knowing Vivienne, probably both.
Dawn crept through the windows, pale and watery. Brooks watched light touch Vivienne’s face, highlighting the bruise forming on her cheek, the bandage on her wrist, the exhaustion that even sleep couldn’t erase.
She’d saved them both tonight. Used every ounce of her gift to reach him, to coordinate their escape, to bring down Winston. And she’d paid a price for it—physical, mental, spiritual. He could see the toll in every line of her body.
“I won’t let anything happen to you again,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if that makes me overprotective or if it violates every professional boundary I’m supposed to maintain. I’m done pretending this is just a working relationship.”
Vivienne didn’t stir. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt warmth. Approval. Like she’d heard him even in sleep and was telling him she felt the same.
Brooks settled deeper into the uncomfortable chair and prepared to wait. Whatever came next—statements to the FBI, closing the case, dealing with the aftermath of Winston’s arrest—they’d face it together.
He’d come to Westerly Cove broken, looking for escape. Instead he’d found purpose. Found partnership. Found someone who saw him clearly and trusted him anyway.
Maybe that’s what Emmeline had seen in him twenty-three years ago. Not just his potential gift, but his potential to be what Vivienne needed. An anchor. A partner. Someone who could ground her when the voices grew too loud.
And maybe—probably—she was what he needed too. Someone who could remind him that his instincts were worth trusting. That he wasn’t broken beyond repair. That faith and logic didn’t have to be enemies.
His phone buzzed.
Chief Sullivan
Media’s got wind of Winston’s arrest. Story’s breaking. Prepare for reporters.
Brooks typed back:
Let Porter handle media. I’m staying with Vivienne.
Three dots appeared, then:
Good man. Keep her safe.
Brooks replied.
Always
He meant it.