Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Interesting.” He sealed the button. “This matches the description of her jacket.”
A few yards further, partially hidden beneath wild roses that grew along the cliff edge, she spotted fabric. Blue with silver threads, exactly as her vision had shown. The scarf.
“Detective.” She pointed toward the roses.
Harrington joined her, his demeanor sharpening as he observed the scarf caught on the thorny bushes. He photographed it from multiple angles before carefully extracting it.
The moment his fingers closed around the fabric, a vision surged through the space between them—so powerful that she gasped. Terror. Desperate fear. The sensation of falling, then nothing.
She stumbled backward, and his hand shot out to steady her, his grip firm on her elbow. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Her pulse raced. The revelation had been intense, more vivid than usual. “Just . . . the cliff edge is unstable.”
She forced herself to focus on the physical evidence. “The signs warning visitors to stay on marked paths exist for good reason.” She pointed to a section of ground where the grass appeared disturbed, the earth crumbled at the edge.
He studied the area. “She could have slipped. But where is she now? If she fell from here, her body should be visible somewhere below.”
“Unless the tide took her,” one of the firefighters suggested.
Chief Sullivan shook his head. “Tide was out last night when she disappeared. Would have been a mostly dry beach down there.” He pulled out his radio to report their findings and request a more thorough search of the cliff base.
While the men discussed retrieval procedures, she closed her eyes, extending her senses beyond the physical realm. The pendant at her throat warmed against her skin. Melissa Clarkson had been here, yes, but the impression felt wrong. Incomplete. Someone had placed the scarf rather than it being accidentally dropped—left as a false clue to suggest an accidental fall.
Harrington moved closer, his voice low. “You found both pieces of evidence. How?”
“I pay attention.”
“To what, exactly?”
“Details. Things out of place.” She met his gaze. “Same as you.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Not the same at all.”
Before she could respond, Chief Sullivan called them toward the structure itself. “Let’s continue to the building while they process the cliff scene.”
As they resumed their path toward the looming white tower, the familiar compulsion she felt grew stronger. It had always affected her more intensely here than any other location in Westerly Cove because of her family’s deep historical connection to this place. Today, that connection pressed against her with unusual strength, the stone itself vibrating with memories.
She observed Detective Harrington as he walked ahead, noting the efficiency in his movements. His organized approach was at odds with her intuitive methods. They were going to clash on this case.
The keeper’s cottage came into view, a modest stone building connected to the main tower. Now functioning as a small museum, it contained displays about the history and the various keepers who had maintained it over the decades. Chief Sullivan used his keys to unlock the door.
Inside, period furniture, navigation equipment, and historical photographs filled the space. Information placards described the construction in 1853, the various keepers who had served over the years, and the maritime history of Westerly Cove.
She carefully moved through the space, with her senses on alert for any impressions. The building held layers of history, generations of lives lived within these walls. Most of the emotional residue was neutral, the everyday experiences of people going about their work. But underneath, something darker pulsed—fear, violence, things deliberately hidden.
“Looking for something specific?” Harrington watched her pause at various displays, her hand hovering near objects without touching them.
“Not sure yet.”
“That’s helpful.”
“You asked.”
He made a note in his book. “In case you find more ‘evidence,’ try to have a reason for where you’re looking.”
She started to respond, but Chief Sullivan interrupted. “The husband mentioned Melissa was particularly interested in the history during the 1920s. Said she’d been asking questions about smuggling operations during Prohibition.”
This piqued her attention. The 1920s. The era when her great-great-grandmother Mathilde had still been alive, when this place had been central to . . . what? Family stories were vague about that period, deliberately so. Grandmother Emmeline had always changed the subject when she asked about Mathilde’s final years.
“Relevant to the case how?” Brooks asked.
“Context. Understanding the history of a place can reveal patterns others miss,” Vivienne said quietly as she continued to look around the museum. She didn’t wait to see if Brooks had a witty comeback before walking away.
The chief called everyone to the back room which housed the small research area. A desk with an old computer, filing cabinets, and bookshelves filled with logbooks and historical documents occupied the cramped space. Nothing appeared disturbed, but when she entered, her gaze was drawn to the corner of a photograph peeking out from beneath the desk.