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)
And they continued killing people who threatened exposure.
She’d spent the morning researching names overheard in the underground chamber. Winston Aldrich’s “business associates” appeared in newspaper society pages and charity fundraiser photographs. A Boston gallery owner specializing in “rare maritime artifacts.” A museum curator who’d built his reputation on “recovered historical pieces.” A private collector whose mansion graced architectural magazines.
All legitimate, respected community members. All received stolen goods through a criminal network operating across generations.
The scope made her head spin. The Aldriches participated in something national, possibly international. The artifacts she’d witnessed in that chamber weren’t merely local treasures—they originated from archaeological sites, museums, private collections worldwide.
Her lighthouse history research project had uncovered a criminal empire.
The bedroom door opened without warning. Sarah Whitfield stood there, face pale and drawn.
“We need to talk.”
Lily scrambled to cover the photographs, but Sarah had already seen them. Her eyes swept the evidence across the floor, absorbing shipping manifests, correspondence, murder documentation.
“Jesus, Lily. What have you done?”
“I found proof. Everything we suspected, theorized about—it’s here. The Aldriches have run a smuggling operation for decades. They’ve killed people, Sarah. Researchers like us.”
“Researchers like you. I never signed up for this.”
“You’ve been with me every step. You—”
“I thought we were researching history!” Sarah’s composure fractured. “I thought this concerned your school project, satisfying curiosity. I didn’t realize you planned to challenge a criminal organization.”
“We must. Don’t you see? These people are murderers. They’ve killed researchers for decades, and they’ll continue until someone stops them.”
“Someone. Not us. We’re seventeen years old, Lily. We should worry about colleges and prom dates and lunch seating arrangements. We shouldn’t be documenting homicides.”
Sarah Whitfield sank onto the bed, hands shaking. “My parents know something’s happening. They keep asking where I’ve been, what we’ve been doing. They’re frightened, Lily. After what occurred in those tunnels, I’m frightened too.”
“We nearly died down there from carelessness. But we survived. We escaped, and we have proof that could—”
“Proof that could get us killed.” Sarah Whitfield’s voice dropped to barely audible. “You said it yourself—they murder people who threaten them. What do you think they’ll do if they discover what we know?”
Lily stared at her best friend, watching color drain from her face, observing how she held herself smaller. The confident girl who’d helped plan this investigation had vanished, replaced by someone who grasped their real danger.
“So what are you saying? That we should pretend we never found any of this?”
“I’m saying we should act intelligently. Take the proof to the police; let them handle it. This isn’t our responsibility.”
“Police who’ve ignored this for generations? Authorities who never investigated those ‘accidents’?” Lily gathered the photographs, movements sharp with frustration. “Sarah, local officials are either bought off or too scared to act. We can’t count on them for justice.”
“Then we contact the state police. The FBI. Someone must be honest.”
“Perhaps. But what if they aren’t? What if corruption runs deeper than we think?” Lily looked at her directly. “These people have operated for decades. They have connections, influence, and resources. They’ve survived by knowing how to handle threats.”
“Threats like us.”
“Exactly. Threats like us.”
Sarah Whitfield stood, decision etched across her features. “I can’t continue this, Lily. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I want college, a normal life. I don’t want to spend senior year looking over my shoulder, wondering if every stranger might kill me.”
“What about justice? What about all those murdered people?”
“What about our families? Our own lives?” Sarah Whitfield’s voice escalated. “You’re so focused on heroics that you’re ignoring consequences. If we expose this, we become targets. Our parents become targets. Everyone we care about becomes a liability.”
Lily felt the weight of her words, their truth. But she also felt the evidence’s weight in her hands, knowledge’s accompanying responsibility.
“I can’t unknow what I know,” she said quietly. “I can’t pretend these people didn’t die, that this criminal organization isn’t operating under our noses.”
“Then act on it. But without me.”
Sarah Whitfield, her partner in every childhood adventure, abandoned the biggest discovery of their lives.
“I understand,” Lily said, though she didn’t. “I understand your fear. I’m scared too. But someone must act on this information.”
“It doesn’t have to be you.”
“Who else? Who else possesses our knowledge? Who else has witnessed what we’ve witnessed?”
Sarah Whitfield remained silent. She examined the evidence once more, then moved toward the door.
“Be careful, Lily, please. I don’t want to lose my best friend to some justice crusade.”
She left, closing the door quietly. Lily sat alone in her bedroom, surrounded by corruption and murder proof.
The investigation had cost her, her best friend. It might cost her family’s safety. It would probably cost her life.
But allowing the Aldriches to continue their operation meant more deaths for anyone approaching the truth. The alternative meant becoming complicit through silence.
She picked up a photograph—Winston Aldrich shaking hands with a man she now knew dealt in stolen artifacts. Both smiled at the camera, comfortable in their criminality.