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)
Martha reached across and grasped her hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Promise me something. When you find the truth, when you expose them—make them pay. Both of them. For Lily, for Robert, for everyone they’ve hurt.”
She looked at her reflection in the antique mirror across the room and noticed new gray streaks in her dark hair. The intensive use of her abilities often manifested this way—premature aging that marked the women in her family. But she had learned to pace herself, to protect her health while still helping others.
Unlike her mother, she wasn’t alone. Detective Harrington might be skeptical, but he was honest, and he sought the truth. Together, they might succeed where previous generations had failed.
As Vivienne prepared to leave, Martha disappeared into another room and returned carrying a small wooden box. “These are Lily’s.” Her voice trembled as she held it out. “Just a few personal things I kept separate from the research materials. A hair ribbon, her locket, some scraps of paper with her handwriting. I thought . . . maybe they could help you.” She pressed the box into Vivienne’s hands.
Vivienne accepted the box, feeling its weight—not just physical, but the emotional burden of a mother’s twenty-five-year grief. “I’ll do what I can, Martha. I promise.”
SIX
brooks
Brooks spread Lily’s research across his desk at the station. Martha had given him the box yesterday afternoon, and he’d spent most of the evening reviewing the contents. Now, in the early morning quiet before the shift change, he could focus on what the seventeen-year-old had discovered.
The notebooks detailed an organized investigation into the lighthouse’s role during Prohibition. Lily had tracked smuggling routes, corrupt officials, and money changing hands. She’d been building a case about crimes that occurred decades before she was born, but her notes suggested the operation hadn’t ended with Prohibition.
One page caught his attention. She’d created a timeline of researchers and journalists who had investigated the lighthouse over the decades. Beside each name, she’d noted what happened:
Catherine Hartwell (1923) - “Fell” from lighthouse, ruled suicide
Dr. James Whitmore (1956) - Drowned when sailboat capsized
Margaret Thornton (1967) - Disappeared, never found
Various others, all meeting unfortunate ends or leaving town suddenly
The pattern went back a century.
Brooks pulled out his phone and texted Officer Daniels.
Brooks: Need you to pull death certificates and police reports for the names I’m sending. Going back to 1923.
He photographed Lily’s list and sent it over. If the Aldrich family had been eliminating threats for generations, there would be evidence. Convenient accidents left trails.
His office phone rang. Chief Sullivan.
“Brooks, we’ve got a situation. Mrs. Rena Zamil called in. Says someone broke into her garden shed last night. Normally I’d send Daniels, but she specifically asked for you.”
Brooks remembered the name from Lily’s case file. Mrs. Zamil had been the witness whose statements changed between interviews. “I’ll head over now.”
The Zamil house sat two blocks from the lighthouse, close enough that the keeper’s cottage was visible from the front windows. Mrs. Zamil met him at the door, a woman in her eighties with sharp eyes and trembling hands.
“Detective Harrington. Thank you for coming.”
“Chief Sullivan said you had a break-in?”
“The shed. Nothing taken, but things were moved around. Boxes opened, papers scattered.” She led him through the house to the back garden. “I wouldn’t have called except for what I found this morning.”
The shed door stood ajar. Inside, cardboard boxes lined the walls, most labeled with dates and contents in faded marker. Mrs. Zamil pointed to one box near the back, its lid askew.
“That one contains old photographs and papers from when my late husband worked for the town. He was on the volunteer search team when that poor Morgan girl went missing.”
Brooks pulled on gloves and examined the box. Someone had rifled through it recently. Photographs lay scattered across the top, and several manila folders had been pulled out and hastily shoved back.
“Mrs. Zamil, do you know what was in these folders?”
“Search grid maps, volunteer assignments, witness statements. Dennis kept copies of everything from the search. He said the official investigation felt incomplete.”
“How did Dennis get copies of witness statements?”
She looked around, almost as if checking to see if anyone else was nearby. “Chief Morrison was careless, often asked for volunteers to do things around the station. Dennis saw an opportunity because had concerns about how Chief Morrison handled things.”
Brooks felt a chill. “What kind of concerns?”
“The hidden cove. Dennis noticed it wasn’t included in the search grid, even though it appeared on all the coastal survey maps. When he asked Morrison about it, he was told the cove was inaccessible and didn’t need searching.” Mrs. Zamil’s hands clenched. “Dennis went there anyway, on his own. He found evidence someone had been there recently. Disturbed sand, fresh marks on the rocks. He took photographs and gave them to Morrison.”
“What happened?”