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)
“Why Westerly Cove specifically?”
“She said there was something about this lighthouse. Some history she wanted to capture.” Daniel rubbed his face. “She’d been researching it for weeks before we came. Reading articles, looking at old photographs online.”
“What kind of history?”
“I don’t know. She got . . . secretive about it. Said she wanted to surprise me with the finished project.” His voice cracked. “I should have paid more attention. Should have asked more questions.”
Brooks kept his tone neutral. “When did you last see her?”
“The morning of the twelfth. We had breakfast together around seven thirty. She said she wanted to get to the lighthouse early, catch the light. She kissed me goodbye and left.” Daniel’s hands clenched. “That was the last time I saw her.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“I’m not a morning person. And she liked working alone—said having me there would distract her.” He looked up at Brooks. “You think I should have gone with her, don’t you? That if I’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I think whoever took your wife planned it carefully. Your presence might have deterred them, or it might have resulted in two victims instead of one.” Brooks made notes. “Did Melissa mention meeting anyone in town? Making any local contacts?”
“She talked to the woman at the historical society. Mrs. Pennington, I think? Melissa said the woman was ‘difficult’ but had access to records she needed.”
Brooks underlined the name. “What records?”
“I don’t know. Melissa didn’t share the details.” Daniel stood and paced to the window. “Detective, my wife is a good person. She doesn’t have enemies. She doesn’t get involved in anything dangerous. She takes pictures of buildings and landscapes. How does someone like that just . . . disappear?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Brooks stood. “I need you to think carefully. Did Melissa seem worried or frightened in the days before she disappeared? Did she mention feeling like someone was watching her?”
Daniel was quiet for a long moment. “The night before. We were having dinner at that restaurant on the harbor—Aldrich’s, I think it’s called. Melissa kept looking over her shoulder. I asked what was wrong, and she said she felt like someone was staring at her. But when I looked, I didn’t see anyone paying us particular attention.”
“Did she describe the person?”
“She couldn’t. Just a feeling.” Daniel turned from the window. “I told her she was being paranoid, that she was overthinking the project. God, I was such an ass.”
Brooks closed his notebook. “Mr. Clarkson, I need you to stay in town and stay available. If you remember anything else—any detail, no matter how small—call me immediately.”
He handed over one of his temporary contact cards. Sullivan had printed him a stack until Brooks made a decision on whether he wanted to stay in Westerly Cove or not. Daniel took it with shaking hands.
“You’ll find her, right? She’s still alive?”
Brooks had learned long ago not to make promises he couldn’t keep. “We’re doing everything we can.”
Outside the hotel, Brooks stood for a moment, processing. Daniel Clarkson’s grief seemed genuine, his confusion about his wife’s research consistent with someone who’d been kept in the dark. But why hadn’t Melissa shared what she was investigating? What had she discovered that required secrecy?
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of witness interviews and coordination with the Coast Guard. By the time Brooks made it to Martha Morgan’s house on Harbor Street, it was nearly two in the afternoon.
The blue house with white trim sat at the end of a quiet street, its small yard meticulously maintained. Martha answered the door before he could knock, as if she’d been watching for him.
“Detective Harrington. Come in.”
The house smelled of lavender and old books. Martha led him to a small sitting room where a box sat waiting on the coffee table.
“Lily’s research,” she said, settling into an armchair. “Everything she collected in those last weeks before she disappeared.”
Brooks opened the box carefully. Inside: notebooks filled with neat handwriting, photocopied documents from the town archives, photographs of the lighthouse from various angles, and a map with locations marked in red ink.
“She was investigating the lighthouse’s history during Prohibition,” Martha said. “She’d found evidence of smuggling operations, tunnels connecting the lighthouse to buildings in town, records that had been deliberately hidden or destroyed.”
Brooks pulled out one of the notebooks and flipped through pages of careful documentation. Dates, names, shipping manifests. Lily Morgan had been thorough.
“Did she tell anyone else what she’d found?”
“She tried to tell her father. He worked maintenance at the lighthouse. He didn’t believe her at first—thought she was being dramatic about her school project.” Martha’s voice broke. “Then she disappeared. And Robert started asking his own questions. Too many questions. Six months after we lost Lily, he died of a heart attack. Very sudden. Very convenient for the people he’d been pressuring for answers.”