Chapter 7
seven
October rain struck Lily’s bedroom window as she spread her latest photographs across her desk. Three weeks into her lighthouse investigation, the mystery had become something that cramped her stomach.
Fresh footprints marked the dust.
Not casual prints from tourists or maintenance workers, but deliberate tracks leading to areas where no official tour went.
Modern athletic shoes with distinct tread patterns had made a path ending at what looked like solid stone—except Lily had captured the same wall from multiple angles, and the shadows revealed inconsistencies in its depth.
She lifted her magnifying glass, examining the image. The mortar lines between certain stones appeared cleaner than their neighbors. Someone had repointed them recently while leaving the surrounding wall authentically weathered.
“Lily!” Her mother’s voice carried up the stairs. “Dinner!”
She checked her watch. It was six-thirty already.
The afternoon had disappeared while she’d studied the photographs, cross-referencing them with architectural plans from the historical society.
Official blueprints showed a simple basement storage area, but her images revealed electrical outlets where none belonged, and modern ventilation grates disguised as historical stonework.
Downstairs, her parents had taken their usual spots at the kitchen table. Pot roast filled the air with familiar comfort, but Martha’s jaw held tension Lily had noticed for a week.
“How did your research go today?” Robert cut his meat with precise strokes. Twenty years of maintenance work had turned his hands into tools that moved with practiced economy.
“Actually, I need to show you something.” Lily pushed her fork aside, choosing words carefully. “I’ve documented unusual features in the lighthouse basement. Features that contradict the official records.”
Robert stopped chewing. “What kind of features?”
“Modern electrical work. Professional installation, probably within the last decade. Plus construction activity—fresh mortar, new hardware, areas someone accesses regularly despite the ‘sealed storage’ designation.”
“Honey,” Martha’s voice carried forced lightness, “you’re describing routine maintenance. Buildings that are old require constant upkeep.”
“This goes beyond maintenance, Mom. Someone has modified the structure extensively.” Lily spread her photograph folder across the table, selecting the most damning images. “These electrical outlets aren’t historical recreations—they’re commercial-grade installations.”
Robert examined the photographs, lines deepening around his eyes. “Where did you take these?”
“Basement areas during public tours. I documented details that contradict the historical narrative.”
“Lily.” Warning sharpened his voice. “You can’t make accusations without complete information.”
“I’m documenting observable facts.”
“Facts with reasonable explanations,” Robert countered. “The historical society upgraded the electrical systems for safety. The building still operates as a tourist site.”
Martha’s fingers found Lily’s hand across the table. “Sweetie, maybe you should reconsider your research direction? You began with such beautiful focus on the lighthouse’s maritime role.”
“This is maritime history. The physical structure tells its own story, and someone’s rewriting that story without proper documentation.”
“Or they documented everything, and you lack access to complete records,” Robert suggested. “Professional renovations demand permits, and inspections. Approval at multiple levels.”
Frustration burned through Lily’s chest. “Then why hide those records? I’ve requested maintenance documentation from the past decade. Mrs. Pennington claims they’re being ‘reorganized’ or ‘restored.’”
“Because they’re private records,” Robert’s voice carried finality. “Organizations don’t share internal documentation with high school students.”
“They operate as a historical society. They accept public funding for preservation activities.”
“That doesn’t obligate them to open files for anyone who asks.”
Martha’s expression had darkened during their exchange. “Lily, consider that your research might make people uncomfortable—not because they’re hiding secrets, but because they’re protecting you.”
“Protecting me?”
“Old buildings harbor dangers, especially in areas closed to public access. Maybe they’re limiting your research for your safety.”
Lily stared at her mother, recognizing a careful neutrality that masked deeper currents. “You think I’m creating conspiracies.”
“I think you’re thorough,” Martha corrected. “Perhaps too thorough for your own good.”
The telephone rang. Robert answered, his voice shifting into formal work mode.
“Morgan residence . . . Yes, this is Robert . . . When? . . . I see . . . I can be there in thirty minutes.”
He hung up and turned to his family. “Emergency call. One of the lighthouse’s backup generators is malfunctioning. I need to check it before the storm hits tonight.”
“Tonight?” Martha looked toward the window where rain streaked down in sheets. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Not if the main power fails. The lighthouse needs redundant systems for safety.” Robert reached for his jacket. “Historical building or not, it still guides ships to harbor.”
After he left, Martha began clearing the dinner dishes with unusual precision. “Lily, I want you to consider something.”
“What?”
“Your father knows the lighthouse’s systems better than anyone. He’s worked on every piece of equipment, every structural modification, and every maintenance issue for twenty years. If he says the electrical work is routine, maybe trust his expertise.”
Lily carried plates to the sink, processing her mother’s words. “You’re asking me to abandon the investigation.”
“I’m asking you to proceed carefully. About what you’re seeking, and what you might discover.”
Something in her mother’s tone made Lily pause mid-step. “Mom, are you hiding something from me?”
Martha’s hands stopped in the soapy water. “Sometimes the truth is more complex than it appears. Sometimes, pursuing the truth puts you in danger.”
“What kind of danger?”
“The kind that comes from asking questions powerful people don’t want answered.”
The admission hung between them. Martha had confirmed Lily’s instincts—someone concealed the lighthouse’s recent history. But her mother’s visible terror suggested stakes beyond academic curiosity.
“The Aldrich family,” Lily whispered. “They’re connected to this.”
Martha’s silence confirmed it.
Later that evening, Lily hunched over her desk researching current Aldrich family members.
Mayor Winston Aldrich, fifty-two years old, is married to Eleanor Aldrich, two adult children.
His business interests included the maritime insurance company that had anchored the family for three generations, plus recent investments in waterfront development projects.
Gerald Aldrich, Winston’s father, served as the lighthouse’s official keeper—a position their family had controlled since the 1920s.
On paper, they projected exactly what they claimed: a respected family with legitimate business interests and community roots stretching back generations. Winston’s insurance company employed half the town. Gerald’s lighthouse tours had earned commendations from the state tourism board.
Yet something about the family’s financial timeline bothered her.
The Aldrich Maritime Insurance Company had struggled through the 1980s, according to newspaper reports in the library’s archives.
Then suddenly, in the early 1990s, the company had expanded rapidly, opening offices in Boston and New York.
What had funded that expansion?
Her research stopped with a knock on her bedroom door. “Come in.”
Sarah entered, shaking rain from her jacket. “Your mom said you might want company. Also, I bring news.”
“What kind of news?”
“The interesting kind. My mom finally talked to her friend at town hall about those building permits you wanted to see.” Sarah settled on the bed, her expression serious. “No permits exist for major electrical work at the lighthouse.”
Lily’s pulse accelerated. “None at all?”
“Nothing in the past fifteen years. Which means either the work happened without proper permits, or . . .”
“Or someone didn’t need permits.”
“Like who?”
Lily stared at her photographs, the pieces forming a disturbing pattern. “Someone with the authority to authorize their own work. Someone controlling the permitting process.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “The mayor’s office approves building permits.”
“And Winston Aldrich has held that office for twelve years.”
Silence settled between them as the implications became clear. If the Aldrich family conducted unauthorized lighthouse modifications, it suggested activities beyond historical preservation.
“Lily,” Sarah’s voice carried careful weight, “you need to use extreme caution with this information.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re right, then you’re investigating something that could destroy the most powerful family in town. People don’t let teenagers expose their secrets.”
Lily studied her friend’s expression, reading genuine terror there. “You think I should stop.”
“I think you should be smart about your next moves. Maybe approach someone in authority—”
“Like who? The police chief, who’s been Winston’s friend for thirty years? The town council, including two of his business partners?”
Sarah offered no answer.
Lily made her choice. “I’m going to document everything. Every modification, every inconsistency, every piece of evidence pointing to unofficial activities in that lighthouse.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll . . .” Lily quieted.
Sarah studied her friend’s determined expression. “You’re going to investigate the tunnels, aren’t you?”
“If that’s what answers demand.”
“Lily—”
“I know it’s dangerous, Sarah. But what if this connects to something larger? What if there’s a reason the Aldrich family has controlled that lighthouse for decades, and it’s not about maritime history?”
Sarah remained quiet for a long moment. “What if you’re right, and they killed people to protect their secrets?”
The question floated between them, unspoken fears finally given voice. Lily thought about her mother’s warnings, her father’s protective dismissal, Mrs. Pennington’s sudden evasiveness about lighthouse records.
“Then someone needs to expose the truth,” she said finally. “Before anyone else suffers.”
Outside, the storm intensified, rain striking windows with increasing fury. In the distance, barely visible through the darkness, the lighthouse beam swept across the harbor with an ancient rhythm, a beacon that had guided ships safely to shore for over a century.
But as Lily studied her photographs of unauthorized electrical work and recent construction, she wondered if the lighthouse’s true purpose had evolved into something far more sinister than maritime safety.
Tomorrow, she would begin documenting evidence that would either prove her theories or place her in the kind of danger her mother had warned her about.
Truth waited in the lighthouse depths, and Lily Morgan would find it, whatever the cost.