Chapter 12
Maggie
The menu was the kind of expensive where they didn't list prices, just poetic descriptions of locally sourced ingredients that somehow justified charging a mortgage payment for scallops.
I tried not to think about it.
Bram was reading his menu with the same intense focus he probably used for inventory spreadsheets at SuperMart. His brow furrowed slightly at "compressed melon with prosciutto dust."
"What's wrong with regular melon?" he muttered.
I bit back a smile. "Too pedestrian."
"It's fruit."
"Compressed fruit."
He looked up at me, deadpan. "How do you compress a melon?"
"Very carefully?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Victory.
Our server appeared, a young man with an earnest face and a name tag that read "Trevor." He launched into the evening's specials with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been coached extensively.
"—and our chef has prepared a pan-seared halibut with a fennel-forward reduction and microgreens harvested from our rooftop garden—"
I caught Bram's eye across the table. His expression said: microgreens?
Mine said: Just go with it.
I ordered the halibut because it sounded the least likely to arrive deconstructed. Bram ordered steak—"Just steak. However it comes"—which made Trevor pause, then recover with professional grace.
When Trevor left with our orders, Bram leaned back in his chair, tail making a small adjustment. His gaze drifted to the window, to the ocean rolling dark against the rocks below.
"I've never been here," he said quietly. "Drove past it a hundred times. Never came in."
"Too expensive?"
"Too..." He searched for the word. "Formal. Places like this, they notice when you're different."
"They're noticing now," I pointed out.
"Yes." He looked at me. "But you're here. That makes it different."
Before I could figure out how to respond, his attention caught on something at the edge of our table. A small tri-fold brochure tucked between the salt shaker and the candle, glossy paper with a ship's wheel embossed on the front.
The Captain's Table: A Historic Seaview Landmark
He picked it up, flipping it open. I watched his expression shift as he read, curiosity, then something that looked like skepticism.
"It says the restaurant was built on the site of Captain James Hood's estate," he said. "A distinguished naval officer who helped establish Seaview's maritime trade routes in the 1700s. Beloved by the community. Pillar of the town." He looked up. "Why do I sense there's more to this story?"
I grinned. "Because there's always more to the story."
"Tell me."
I glanced around. The nearest tables were occupied by couples lost in their own conversations, the ambient noise of silverware and low voices providing cover. I scooted my chair around the table until I was sitting beside him instead of across, close enough to see the brochure over his shoulder.
Close enough to feel the cool press of his arm against mine.
"Okay," I said, dropping my voice into storytelling mode. "Captain James Hood was a naval officer. That part's true. But 'distinguished' is doing a lot of heavy lifting."
Bram's tail curled with interest. "Go on."
"Hood's ship ran privateering missions during the Colonial era, which is a fancy way of saying state-sanctioned piracy. He had a letter of marque from the Crown, which meant he could legally rob ships as long as they were flying enemy flags. Spanish ships, mostly. French, sometimes."
"Legal piracy."
"The best kind." I pointed to the brochure's painting of a dignified man in a naval coat. "That's him. Looks respectable, right? Very George Washington energy."
"Except?"
"Except Hood got greedy. Started attacking neutral ships. Merchant vessels that weren't at war with anyone. Took their cargo, sank the ships, left no witnesses. For years, no one knew. He'd come back to Seaview, donate to the church, build houses for widows, play the generous captain."
Bram leaned closer, reading the brochure's description of Hood's "generous contributions to Seaview's development." His breath was cool against my temple.
"The town was built on stolen money," he said.
"Yep. And when his wife, Mary Hood, found out?" I tapped the brochure's mention of her: beloved wife who tragically passed in 1763. "She didn't 'tragically pass.' She walked to this cliff—right here, where we're sitting—and jumped."
Bram went very still.
"Local legend says you can still hear her on stormy nights," I added, because if we were telling ghost stories, we might as well commit. "Wailing for the men her husband murdered. The sailors who drowned. The families he destroyed."
"Is that true?"
"The wailing? Probably just wind and guilt." I shrugged. "The suicide? Documented. There's a record in the church cemetery. Mary Elizabeth Hood, beloved wife, taken by the sea."
"Sanitized," Bram murmured, disgust clear in his voice.
"History usually is." I leaned back, watching his face.
"The town knows, sort of. It's one of those open secrets we don't talk about.
Hood's estate became the foundation for Seaview's economy: the docks, the warehouses, the trade routes.
The money was dirty, but it built schools and roads and everything people needed.
So we just... don't mention the piracy part. "
"And his wife?"
"There's a plaque on the cliff path. 'In memory of Mary Hood, whose love for the sea was boundless.' No mention of why she jumped. No mention of what her husband did."
Bram set the brochure down carefully, like it had personally offended him. "Every town has blood in its foundation."
"Most do," I agreed. "Seaview's just has more than most."
He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the ocean. The waves rolled dark against the rocks, white foam catching the moonlight. The same rocks Mary Hood had fallen onto two and a half centuries ago.
"Do you think she haunts it?" he asked. "The cliff?"
"I think if anyone earned the right to haunt something, it's a woman who found out everything she believed was a lie." I tilted my head. "But no. I don't think ghosts work like that. I think she just... left. Let the ocean take her grief. Let the rest of us deal with what was left behind."
"The restaurant's named after him," Bram said flatly. "Not her."
"Of course it is. He built the house. She just died in it."
His jaw tightened. I could see the anger there, carefully controlled but present. Anger for a woman dead two hundred years who never got her name on the building, whose story got reduced to beloved wife and nothing more.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "That was probably too dark for a first date."
"No." He turned to look at me, eyes serious. "I asked. And I'd rather know the truth than read sanitized brochures about distinguished naval officers."
"Even if the truth is ugly?"
"Especially then."
Something in the way he said it made me think he wasn't just talking about Captain Hood anymore.
I reached for his hand under the table. His fingers closed around mine, cool and solid and real.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I think Mary Hood would’ve liked you."
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because you see the people everyone else ignores. The ones who get written out of the story."
His thumb brushed across my knuckles, a small, unconscious gesture that made my pulse skip.
"You see them too," he said.
"Cop training. I had to learn to read what people weren't saying."
"Is that why you left?"
The question landed gently, but it still hit something tender. I'd known it was coming eventually, the conversation about why I'd traded a badge for soap molds, why I'd chosen isolation over community until I collapsed in the toy aisle and a barghest rearranged everything.
But before I could answer, the restaurant's front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the wine glasses.
Every conversation stopped.
A child stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.
Ethan.
The boy who'd touched Bram's horns on the street.
His mother appeared behind him, trying to grab his shoulder. "Ethan, you can't just—"
But he was already moving, scanning the dining room with desperate focus until his eyes locked on our table.
On Bram.
He ran toward us, his mother calling after him, Trevor the server trying to intercept, the whole restaurant watching as this small, frantic child skidded to a stop beside our table.
"You have to help," he gasped. "We can't find my sister. She's been gone for—" He looked at his mother, who'd finally caught up. "How long?"
"Twenty minutes," she said, voice shaking. "We've looked everywhere. The deputy's outside, but he doesn't know what to—" She seemed to realize she was talking to strangers in a restaurant. "I'm sorry. Ethan said you were—he said you could—"
"Track," Ethan finished, looking at Bram with absolute certainty. "You said you're like a dog. Dogs can track people. Can you track my sister?"
The entire restaurant had gone silent. Every eye in the room was on us. On Bram, specifically, waiting to see what the barghest would do.
I felt him tense beside me, tail going still. This was the moment, the test. The town watching to see if the monster would help or if they'd been right to keep their distance.
I squeezed his hand once. Your choice.
He stood, leaving his napkin on the table, dinner forgotten.
"What's your sister's name?" he asked Ethan.
"Lily. She's six. She was right next to me, and then she wasn't, and—" The boy's voice cracked. "I looked away for one second."
"It's not your fault," Bram said firmly. Then, to the mother: "Where did you last see her?"
"The town square. By the bonfire. There were so many people, and the music, and—" She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting tears. "She's scared of crowds. If she panicked, she might've run somewhere to hide."
Bram looked at me. I was already standing, already reaching for my purse, cop instincts slamming into place like muscle memory.
"We'll help," I said.
His mother's expression crumpled with relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Trevor appeared, looking uncertain. "Your dinners will be out in a few minutes—"
"Box them," I said, pulling out my card and handing it to him. "We'll pick them up later. Or not. Just charge the card."
Bram was already moving toward the door, Ethan practically attached to his side. The mother followed, casting grateful, bewildered looks back at us.
I caught up to them on the sidewalk outside, where a young deputy stood with a radio in hand, looking desperately out of his depth.
He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with the kind of fresh-faced earnestness that meant he'd probably graduated from the academy six months ago and had never dealt with anything more serious than noise complaints.
When he saw me, recognition flickered. "Hey, Maggie."
"Where's Sheriff Carson?" I barked at him, full cop mode now. It had slid back on like my old uniform.
"Out of town. Fishing trip up north. Won't be back until tomorrow." He looked at his radio like it might provide answers. "I've called it in, but we don't have enough people to do a proper search, and with the festival crowds—"
"How long has she been missing?"
"Twenty-three minutes."
Not long. Not long enough for real panic yet. But long enough that a six-year-old could get far, could get hurt, could get lost in a town full of strangers and bonfires and dark alleyways between buildings.
I looked at Bram. He was already scanning the street, nostrils flaring slightly, head tilted like he was listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear.
"Can you track her?" I asked quietly.
"If I have her scent. Something she touched recently. Clothing, a toy—"
"Her jacket," the mother said immediately, pulling out a small purple windbreaker from her bag. "She was wearing it earlier. Took it off when she got hot."
Bram took it, holding it carefully. He pressed it to his face, breathing in deeply.
The deputy watched, uncertain. "Is he... is that going to work?"
"It'll work," I said with more confidence than I felt.
Because I had no idea if it would work. I'd never seen a barghest track someone. Didn't know if the stories were real or myth or somewhere in between.
But Bram had gone very still, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured. His tail hung loose, tip barely moving.
Then his eyes opened.
"I have it," he said. "Strawberry shampoo. Sweat. Something sweet—candy?"
"She had taffy earlier," the mother confirmed, hope breaking through her panic.
Bram turned toward Main Street, then stopped. He tilted his head and adjusted his position.
"She went east," he said. "Toward the pier."
I looked at the deputy. "Radio for backup. Anyone who's available. Have them start at the pier and work their way back. We'll work from here forward."
He hesitated. "You're not… you don't have the authority to—"
"Do you want to find this girl, or do you want to stand here discussing jurisdiction?" My cop voice came back like I'd never left the force. Sharp. Commanding. Taking no argument.
He swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am."
"Then move."
He moved.
I turned to Ethan's mother. "What's your name?"
"Sarah. Sarah Mitchell."
"Sarah, I need you to stay here with the deputy. If Lily comes back to where she last saw you, someone needs to be here."
"But—"
"I know. I know you want to search. But if she's scared and trying to find you, she'll go back to the last place she remembers: the bonfire, the square. You need to be her landmark."
Sarah's face crumpled, but she nodded. "Okay. Okay, yes. But please—"
"We'll find her," I said, and meant it.
I looked at Ethan. "You're with us. You know your sister better than anyone. If she's hiding, where would she go?"
He thought hard. "Somewhere quiet. She doesn't like loud noises. She'd look for somewhere small. Like a fort."
"Good. That's good information." I looked at Bram. "Lead the way."
He started walking, pace quick but controlled, head still tilted slightly as if he were following an invisible thread only he could sense.
I fell into step beside him, the green dress suddenly ridiculous and constrictive for what we were about to do.
But there was no time to change. No time for anything except following the barghest through the Halloween crowds, past the jack-o'-lanterns and string lights and families celebrating, searching for one small, scared girl.
Ethan stayed close to Bram, his small hand gripping his sleeve like a lifeline.
And I did what I'd been trained to do: I watched, I organized, I prepared for every possible outcome.
But under all of it, under the cop training and the adrenaline, one thought pulsed steady:
Please let us find her. Please let us find her safe.
Behind us, the restaurant's lights glowed warm and welcoming, our dinners probably waiting at the table, getting cold.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered except the little girl lost somewhere in the dark.
And the barghest who was going to help me find her.