Sullivan reached for his radio to call in the discovery and request forensic assistance. While he coordinated with dispatch, Harrington moved closer to her.
“What exactly do you do?” His voice was low, direct.
“I notice things others miss.”
“Like lucky guesses about where evidence is hidden?”
“Like patterns. Connections.” She met his gaze. “Things that don’t add up.”
“You found that button in tall grass. The scarf hidden in bushes. Now you’re telling us this is an attack scene.” He crossed his arms. “That’s not noticing. That’s something else.”
“Call it intuition.”
“Intuition doesn’t lead you straight to evidence in a search area with twenty other people.”
Brooks stared at Vivienne for a long moment. Her gaze never wavered. She would let him think whatever he wanted about her, but eventually he would ask her what she was, and she’d tell him. It would be up to Brooks whether to believe in her and her craft or not.
“That photograph showing up here after twenty-five years is suspicious. But jumping to conclusions about attacks andconnections to old cases—that’s exactly the kind of thinking that derails investigations.”
“And dismissing potentially valuable insights because they don’t fit your narrow definition of evidence is exactly the kind of thinking that leaves cases unsolved.”
Their eyes met in a moment of antagonism before a call came from outside.
“Chief! We found another blood trail leading toward the hidden cove!”
They hurried outside to where one of the search team members pointed to small, easily missed droplets of blood on the rough path leading away, toward the less frequented southern end of the promontory.
“The hidden cove?” Harrington had his notebook ready.
“Local name for a small beach accessible only by a difficult path or by boat.” Chief Sullivan gestured toward the trail. “Not on most maps, barely visible from the water unless you know exactly where to look.”
“I know the way. It will be faster if I lead you there,” Vivienne stated, then began walking.
The chief hesitated, seeming reluctant to put a civilian at the front of what was potentially becoming a crime scene investigation. But time was critical if Melissa Clarkson was injured, and the blood trail suggested urgency.
Harrington looked skeptical. “How convenient that . . .” he paused and looked like he was searching for the right words. He shook head. “Of course you know where all the hidden locations are.”
“I grew up here, Detective. My great-great-great grandmother lived in the keeper’s quarters before she moved into the house where you enjoyed coffee this morning. I know every trail, every beach, every cave along this coastline. Most ofus do,” she paused and looked at the search team. “And I believe the word you’re looking for is psychic. That’s what I am.”
Vivienne looked at Chief Sullivan for an answer. She had stopped caring a long time ago about what people thought of her.
“Fine.” Chief Sullivan nodded reluctantly. “But stay close and follow instructions if we find anything.”
She was already moving toward the narrow trail that wound through dense coastal vegetation down the steep cliff face. She knew this path intimately, having explored it countless times since childhood. The hidden cove had always been a place of refuge and reflection for her.
Today, however, it might hold more than solitude.
As she led the group down the treacherous path, she felt the presence behind them, its silent witness to whatever was about to be uncovered. The spirits had guided her to the button and the photograph. They wanted the truth to emerge, wanted justice for the crimes committed in their sacred spaces.
By the time they reached the rocky beach, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Chief Sullivan called for additional backup, his radio crackling with static as he coordinated the expanded search. Harrington remained focused on documenting the scene, taking photographs and making notes.
The search would continue into the evening, but Vivienne already knew they wouldn’t find Melissa Clarkson here. The spirits had shown her enough to understand that the missing woman was somewhere else entirely, somewhere connected to the hidden history.
She watched Harrington crouch near a rock formation, examining it with careful attention before dismissing it. Evidence, procedure, documented facts—that was his world. Hers operated on different principles. Spirits, visions, centuries of family knowledge passed down through generations of women. He’d called her finds coincidence. Lucky guesses. Hedidn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain without sounding exactly as he suspected—delusional or a fraud.
But Melissa Clarkson was still missing, and that was what mattered. Whether Brooks Harrington believed in her methods or not, she would continue following the trail.
Hours later, alone in her kitchen, she sat at her grandmother’s old wooden table, hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea. The events of the day had drained her more than usual—the visions had been vivid, demanding. What they’d revealed sat heavy in her chest. Somewhere a woman remained in danger.
