“And he let her go alone?”
“Says she goes off hiking and exploring alone all the time. Independent type. When she didn’t return for dinner, he started calling around, then reported her missing around six last night.”
She listened with half her attention. The compulsion drew her north toward the cliff edge, where the maintained grounds gave way to wild grass and unstable earth. She didn’t announce her deviation, simply drifted away from the group, following the insistent guidance.
The grass grew longer here, whispering against her jeans as she moved toward the cliff edge. The salt air intensified, carryingthe rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks below. Seagulls cried overhead, their calls mixing with the distant foghorn from a passing ship.
Her hand closed around something small caught in the grass. It was a button from a woman’s jacket, navy blue with an anchor design. Fear, confusion, someone grabbing her arm roughly, the button tearing free during a struggle—took over Vivienne’s being.
“I found something.”
Detective Harrington rushed toward her with an evidence bag in his gloved hand. “Don’t touch it further. Where exactly did you find it?”
She pointed to the precise location, stepping back to give him room to document and collect the evidence. Whatever he thought about her methods, he took the physical investigation seriously.
“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 inWesterly 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.
