Epilogue
Three months after Winston Aldrich’s arrest, the bell above The Mystic Cup’s door chimed, and Melissa Clarkson walked in.
Vivienne looked up from the tarot spread she was studying and smiled. “Melissa. It’s good to see you.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Melissa glanced around the shop—at the shelves of crystals and herbs, the reading table by the window, the familiar comfort of the space. “I know I should have called first, but I was in town and thought . . . well, I thought maybe you’d have time for a reading?”
“For you? Always.” Vivienne gestured to the chair across from her. “Please, sit.”
Dawn emerged from the back room with two cups of tea, as if she’d known Melissa was coming. She probably had. Dawn’s intuition was uncanny, even without Vivienne’s gifts. She set the cups down with a warm smile and retreated, giving them privacy.
Melissa settled into the chair, wrapping her hands around the tea. She’d lost weight since the kidnapping, her frame almost fragile in jeans and a sweater. But her eyes were clear. Healing, even if the scars ran deep.
“How are you doing?” Vivienne asked. “Really?”
“Some days are better than others.” Melissa took a sip of tea.
“The divorce was finalized last week. Daniel’s serving fifteen to twenty years, thanks to his guilty plea and cooperation with federal prosecutors.
” She paused. “The therapist says it’s normal to have trust issues after your husband sells you out to people who kidnap and torture you. Who knew?”
The bitter humor was new. A defense mechanism, probably, but Vivienne was glad to see some spark returning.
“So you wanted a reading?” Vivienne gathered the cards she’d been studying and set them aside, pulling out a fresh deck. “What question are you bringing to the cards today?”
Melissa considered. “I guess . . . what comes next? I feel like I’m at a crossroads. The divorce is final, Daniel’s in prison, and I have this book to finish. But I don’t know if I’m ready to move forward or if I’m still stuck in what happened.”
“That’s a good question.” Vivienne shuffled the deck, feeling the familiar weight and energy of the cards. “Let’s do a three-card spread. Past, present, future. Simple but often exactly what we need.”
She fanned the cards across the table. “Whenever you’re ready, choose three.”
Melissa studied the backs of the cards, then carefully selected three, placing them face-down in a row.
Vivienne turned over the first card. The Tower. She wasn’t surprised.
“Your past,” she said softly. “The Tower represents sudden, catastrophic change. Destruction of what you thought was stable. Your marriage, your sense of safety, everything that happened in those tunnels—it all came crashing down.”
Melissa’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded. “That’s accurate.”
The second card revealed the Eight of Swords. A blindfolded woman surrounded by swords, trapped but not bound.
“Your present. The Eight of Swords.” Vivienne met Melissa’s gaze.
“You feel trapped by what happened. By fear, by doubt, by the trauma. But look closely—the woman in this card isn’t tied up.
The swords don’t actually cage her. She could walk away if she removed the blindfold.
Your prison right now is partly of your own making.
The healing journey requires you to see that you have more freedom than you think. ”
“I’m . . . still afraid,” Melissa admitted. “Of trusting people. Of being vulnerable again.”
“That’s understandable. But the card is telling you that you’re not as stuck as you feel.” Vivienne turned over the final card.
The Star.
The most hopeful card in the deck. A woman pouring water under a night sky full of stars, symbolizing hope, healing, and renewed purpose.
“Your future,” Vivienne said, warmth spreading through her chest. “The Star comes after The Tower in the Major Arcana. After destruction comes hope. After trauma comes healing. This card promises that you’ll find your way forward.
You’ll heal. You’ll trust again. And you’ll shine—your book, your voice, your truth will be a light for others. ”
Melissa wiped her eyes. “I want to believe that.”
“The cards say you can. But you have to choose it. Remove the blindfold. Step out of the swords. Reach for the star.” Vivienne touched the card gently. “What will you do now?”
“Finish the book. About the lighthouse, the Aldriches, all of it.” Melissa’s expression turned fierce, echoing the determination in The Star card.
“Daniel thought he could stop me by reporting my research to them. Instead, he just gave me a better story. One about corruption, betrayal, and a seventeen-year-old girl who died trying to expose the truth.”
“Lily would appreciate that.”
“I hope so.” Melissa pulled out a folder. “I’ve been interviewing Martha Morgan. She’s sharing everything—Lily’s journals, her research notes, family photographs. It’s heartbreaking and beautiful and exactly what this story needs.”
Vivienne thought about Martha, who’d finally been able to bury her daughter with dignity. Who’d stopped living in suspended grief and started living again. The book would honor that journey.
“When you write about me,” Vivienne said carefully, “please be accurate. I’m not a fortune teller or a parlor trick psychic. I’m—”
“A medium with a genuine gift who helped solve a century-old crime.” Melissa met her eyes. “I know. I was there when you led Brooks to me in those tunnels. I heard you talking to spirits I couldn’t see. I’m not going to sensationalize what you can do—I’m going to document it honestly.”
“Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.” Melissa’s voice wavered. “You saved my life. You and Detective Harrington both. I don’t know how to repay that.”
“You don’t have to. Just live well. That’s enough.”
They talked for another twenty minutes about Melissa’s plans.
She was staying in a rental apartment in Providence while she wrote, close enough to Westerly Cove for research trips but far enough for emotional distance.
She’d started dating again—cautiously, slowly, but opening herself to the possibility.
“I should go,” Melissa said finally. “I have an interview with Gerald Aldrich’s attorney this afternoon. He’s trying to paint his client as a victim of family pressure. I need to prepare questions that will cut through that nonsense.”
“Good luck.”
“You too. With everything.” Melissa smiled. “I saw you and Brooks working together at the harbor last week. You two make a good team.”
“We do,” Vivienne agreed.
“Good. You both deserve success after everything.”
After Melissa left, Vivienne sat at the reading table for a few more minutes, gathering the cards and processing. Three months ago, Melissa had been a missing tourist. Now she was a survivor writing a book that would expose the Aldrich empire to national attention.
Healing wasn’t linear. But it was happening.
Dawn appeared at her shoulder. “That was a good reading. She needed to hear that.”
“She did.” Vivienne tucked the deck back into its silk wrap. “The Star came at exactly the right time.”
“It always does.” Dawn smiled. “Brooks texted. He’s outside whenever you’re ready.”
Vivienne glanced at the clock. His day off, and they’d planned to work on some case files together. She found him leaning against his car on the street, looking relaxed in jeans and a sweater.
“Hey,” he said with a nod. “How was your morning?”
“Good. Melissa came in for a reading.” Vivienne slid into the passenger seat. “She’s doing well, all things considered. The divorce is final.”
“That’s good. She deserves a fresh start.” Brooks started the car. “So, where to now?”
“I was thinking we could drive up to Providence. Hit that bookstore you mentioned—the one with the occult section you wanted to browse.” Brooks started the car. “Unless you’re tired. We could just stay in town.”
“Providence sounds perfect.”
They drove through the coastal roads, talking about everything and nothing. The new case Sullivan wanted them to consult on. Dawn’s idea to expand The Mystic Cup’s hours. Brooks’s upcoming visit from his parents, who were curious about their son’s partnership with the local medium.
The bookstore was exactly what Vivienne had hoped—cramped and dusty, with shelves reaching the ceiling and a black cat sleeping on the counter. She lost herself in the occult section while Brooks browsed mysteries.
“Find anything good?” he asked an hour later.
“Three books on scrying techniques and one on prophetic dreams.” Vivienne showed him her stack. “What about you?”
“Found a first edition Louise Penny. And this.” He held up a slim volume. “A history of lighthouses in New England. Thought you might like it.”
She took the book, appreciating the thoughtful gesture. The lighthouse had become significant to both of them—where the case had ended, where they’d nearly died, where everything had changed.
“Thank you.”
They paid for their books and wandered through downtown Providence, stopping for coffee and pastries at a café. Professional partnership activities. Working relationship activities.
Strange how a working relationship had become something more significant than just colleagues. How a simple afternoon with Brooks felt comfortable in a way few partnerships did.
“I’ve been thinking,” Brooks said as they drove back toward Westerly Cove. “About what you said three months ago. About being scared to end up like your mother.”
“I remember.”
“Are you still scared?”
Vivienne considered. “Sometimes. When I push too hard or have a particularly draining vision. But then you’re there, reminding me to rest. Dawn’s there, making me eat when I forget.
Martha visits and tells me stories about Lily that remind me why this work matters.
” She glanced at him. “Having a good partner makes all the difference.”
“Good.” Brooks nodded. “Because this partnership works. We’re a good team.”
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the ocean appearing between buildings as they neared Westerly Cove. The lighthouse was visible in the distance, its beacon operational again after months of being dark during the FBI investigation.
“Want to make a detour?” Brooks asked.
“To the lighthouse?”
“If you’re up for it. I thought maybe we could . . .” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “Never mind. It’s probably a bad idea.”
“No. I want to.” Vivienne understood what he wasn’t saying. They’d nearly died there. They’d forged their connection there. They needed to reclaim it as something other than a trauma site.
Brooks parked in the small lot. The lighthouse grounds looked different in afternoon sun—peaceful, even welcoming. The keeper’s cottage was boarded up pending historical society restoration, but the tower itself stood proud against the sky.
They walked the path together, neither speaking. The cliff where Vivienne had found Melissa’s button. The entrance to the basement where the tunnels began. The door to the tower itself, now locked but visible through the fence.
“The FBI cleared it last week,” Brooks said. “Sullivan has the keys if you ever want to go inside.”
“Maybe someday. When it doesn’t make my ribs ache to look at it.”
They stood at the fence, watching waves crash against the rocks below. The beacon would activate at dusk, its light sweeping across the water in steady rhythm. A warning. A guide. Both at once.
“Lily’s at peace now,” Vivienne said quietly. “I can feel it. She’s not trapped here anymore.”
“Because of you.”
“Because of us. You trusted me when no one else would. Followed leads that made no sense. Let me guide you with visions and intuition instead of evidence.” She turned to face him. “That’s what solved the case. Not my abilities or your detective work. Both together.”
Brooks smiled. “Best partnership I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too,” Vivienne said. “I never thought I’d work with law enforcement. But this . . . this works.”
“It does.” He looked out at the ocean. “Ready to do it again?”
“On the next case? Absolutely.”
They stayed at the lighthouse until the sun began to set, talking about the future. Brooks’s permanent position. Vivienne’s expanding business. The possibility of consulting on more cases together. Professional plans for a not-quite-typical partnership.
As they walked back to the car, Vivienne felt Mathilde’s presence—not urgent or warning, just approving. Her great-great-grandmother had built protections into this lighthouse, had fought the Aldriches in her own time, had started a legacy that Vivienne was continuing.
But she was doing it differently. With a partner. With support. With purpose.
The beacon activated as they drove away, its light cutting through the gathering dusk. Vivienne watched it in the side mirror, feeling its steady rhythm like a heartbeat.
Some endings were really beginnings.
Some lighthouses guided you home.
And some ghosts were finally, peacefully, at rest.