She carefully moved through the space, with her senses on alert for any impressions. The building held layers of history, generations of lives lived within these walls. Most of the emotional residue was neutral, the everyday experiences of people going about their work. But underneath, something darker pulsed—fear, violence, things deliberately hidden.
“Looking for something specific?” Harrington watched her pause at various displays, her hand hovering near objects without touching them.
“Not sure yet.”
“That’s helpful.”
“You asked.”
He made a note in his book. “In case you find more ‘evidence,’ try to have a reason for where you’re looking.”
She started to respond, but Chief Sullivan interrupted. “The husband mentioned Melissa was particularly interested in thehistory during the 1920s. Said she’d been asking questions about smuggling operations during Prohibition.”
This piqued her attention. The 1920s. The era when her great-great-grandmother Mathilde had still been alive, when this place had been central to . . . what? Family stories were vague about that period, deliberately so. Grandmother Emmeline had always changed the subject when she asked about Mathilde’s final years.
“Relevant to the case how?” Brooks asked.
“Context. Understanding the history of a place can reveal patterns others miss,” Vivienne said quietly as she continued to look around the museum. She didn’t wait to see if Brooks had a witty comeback before walking away.
The chief called everyone to the back room which housed the small research area. A desk with an old computer, filing cabinets, and bookshelves filled with logbooks and historical documents occupied the cramped space. Nothing appeared disturbed, but when she entered, her gaze was drawn to the corner of a photograph peeking out from beneath the desk.
She knelt and retrieved it, mindful of Harrington’s emphasis on evidence handling. The photo showed the structure from a distance, taken from the water, with a strange light visible at the top that didn’t match the normal beam pattern. The back bore a smudged date that appeared to be from the late 1990s and what looked like the initials “L.M.” partially obscured by water damage.
Her pulse quickened. Those initials tugged at her memory. “L.M.”
Chief Sullivan came up behind her. She handed him the photograph. He’d done the same as her, turned it over, examined the back, and then looked at it again. “This looks old. Wonder if it belongs to the museum collection.”
Her mind made the connection. “Do you think the L.M stands for Lily Morgan? Could these be her initials? The teenager who disappeared around twenty-five years ago?”
Harrington looked up sharply. “Who’s Lily Morgan?”
Chief Sullivan’s expression darkened. “Lily was seventeen when she vanished while researching the lighthouse for a school project. October 1999. We searched for weeks—never found a trace.” He examined the photo. “How is this here? We went through this place top to bottom back then.”
“Maybe Melissa found it during her research.” Vivienne’s unease grew. “And someone took it from her.”
The implications weighed heavily in the air. If Melissa Clarkson had found this photograph during her research, if she had somehow connected her work to Lily Morgan’s disappearance, it could explain why she had gone missing in the same location.
“Chief,” one of the firefighters called from the main room. “We found something else.”
They returned to find the man pointing at the floorboards near the entrance to the tower itself. A small area of discoloration was visible, easily missed but distinct upon closer inspection.
“That looks like blood.” Harrington knelt to examine it. “Fresh, too. Within the last day or so.”
Images flashed through her mind—not the overwhelming sensation from the scarf, but clear, precise pictures. A woman backing away in fear. A masculine figure advancing. The sharp edge of something metal reflecting lamplight.
“She was attacked here. Melissa Clarkson came here looking for answers about Lily Morgan, and someone followed her.”
Chief Sullivan’s jaw tightened. He’d seen her grandmother work cases, knew better than to dismiss what shesaid. “Harrington, call forensics. We need this processed immediately.”
“We need to test that blood for DNA first.” Harrington stood. “Before we jump to conclusions about attacks.”
“Not jumping to conclusions, Detective. Following leads.” Sullivan’s tone left no room for argument. “Miss Hawthorne has helped solve three cases in neighboring counties. Her insights have value.”
Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of insights?”
“The kind that find missing persons.”
“That’s not an answer.”
