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)
“Turn here.” Vivienne pointed to an unmarked dirt road barely visible through coastal scrub.
The path narrowed quickly, forcing him to slow to a crawl as branches scraped the car’s sides. After a quarter mile, the road ended at a small clearing where the trees pressed close.
“We walk from here.” She climbed out, already moving toward a trail he hadn’t noticed.
He grabbed the forensics kit from the trunk and followed. The path looked well-used---fishermen and teenagers probably, seeking the secluded beach for their own purposes. But as they moved deeper into coastal woods, he noticed something odd about the landscape.
Trees leaned away from their route. Ancient pines angled their trunks at uncomfortable degrees, branches bent away in sharp curves.
“The trail’s always been like this.” Vivienne caught his upward glance. “Grandmother Emmeline said the trees sense what lies ahead and want no part of it.”
Weather patterns, soil composition, or prevailing winds could explain the growth patterns. He’d seen stranger formations in Texas. The silence bothered him more—no bird calls, no rustling animals, just their footsteps on fallen leaves and waves against rock.
“How far?”
He shifted the forensics kit on his shoulder.
“Another quarter mile. The descent gets steep at the bluff.”
They walked without speaking. Taking photographs from multiple angles, documenting everything before disturbing anything, and making sure the proper chain of custody. Standard work, even if the location wasn’t.
The trees thinned near the coastline, revealing dark water through branches. When they emerged onto the bluff, the view stopped him cold.
The water below looked almost black in full afternoon sunlight. Not the deep blue-green of ocean depths, but an oily darkness that absorbed light. At low tide, skeletal remains of old ships jutted from shallow water—ribs of rotted wood and rusted metal from decades, maybe centuries, of vessels that had met their end here.
“Christ.” He pulled out his camera. “How many wrecks?”
“More than the official records show. Ships that were never supposed to be here.”
They picked their way down the narrow path that switch backed along the cliff face. Loose stone and exposed roots made the descent treacherous, but someone had used this route recently. Broken branches and disturbed earth marked fresh passage.
The beach stretched as a crescent of dark sand and rounded stones, sheltered on three sides by granite walls. At high tide, boats could reach it. At low tide, it revealed what the water usually concealed.
He documented the scene from multiple angles before examining specific areas. Near the waterline, rope fibers caught on a barnacle-encrusted rock. Farther up the beach, a depression in the sand showed where something heavy had been dragged toward the water.
“There.” Vivienne pointed to a natural shelf in the cliff wall about six feet above the high tide line. “Someone stored something there recently.”
He climbed to examine the shelf and found fresh scuff marks on the rock and traces of canvas fiber. Every sample went into bags, the detachment that had served him throughout his career holding steady, though unease prickled at his neck.
The sensation of surveillance grew stronger, but each time he turned to scan the cliff walls or the tree line above, he saw no one.
“We should work quickly.” Her voice carried tension. “This place has too many hiding spots.”
“It’s a geographical location.” The automatic response came even as his wariness grew. The silence continued—no seabirds despite the coastal setting, no insects around the tidal pools, no normal sounds of a living ecosystem.
Footsteps crunched on the path above them. An elderly man picked his way down the cliff trail with the grace of someone who had made this descent countless times.
“Old Jack.” Surprise colored Vivienne’s greeting. “I didn’t expect you here.”
Jack Thornton reached the beach and approached them. Up close, the fisherman’s weathered face showed deep lines from decades of sun and salt spray, but his pale blue eyes stayed sharp.
“Figured you’d end up here eventually.” He nodded toward the bags. “Found what you were looking for?”
“Not yet. Did you see anything unusual in the past few days? Boats, people, activity?” Brooks asked.
Jack’s expression darkened. “Been seeing unusual things around here for thirty years, Detective. Question is whether you’re ready to hear about them.”
“Try me.”
The old fisherman gestured toward the scattered shipwrecks. “Those aren’t all accidents. Some are, sure—vessels caught in sudden squalls, captains who didn’t know the rocks. But others . . .” He pointed to a partially submerged hull near the far wall. “That one’s the Mary Catherine, vanished in 1987 with a hold full of cargo that never appeared on any manifest. Coast Guard called it a probable sinking, but I watched her go down. Wasn’t weather that took her.”
Jack had turned his attention to Vivienne, who had moved closer to the water’s edge and now stood motionless, staring at the dark water.
“Some places remember violence. This one’s remembered too much. Your friend there—she’s sensitive to memories that ain’t her own. Dangerous thing in a place like this.”