Vivienne agreed, though he could hear her reluctance. They were going into a potentially dangerous situation without backup, following leads that had gotten multiple people killed.
But they were also the first investigators to piece together evidence from multiple sources, to see the full scope of the operation. For the first time in a quarter century, someone had a chance to expose the truth.
Brooks secured the evidence in the station safe, after making additional copies, and left a note for Sullivan explaining where he’d be and why. If something happened to him, the chief would find the documentation.
Then he headed for the lighthouse, where Vivienne waited beside her car, a backpack slung over her shoulder and determination in her eyes.
Time to find out what Lily Morgan had hidden in the cave. Time to discover whether her courage decades ago could still bring justice today.
Because if the pattern held, Melissa had very little time left. And the only way to save her was to follow the trail Lily had blazed when she died trying to expose the truth.
SEVEN
vivienne
Morning light streamedthrough the stained glass panels framing the front door of The Mystic Cup, casting jewel-toned patterns across the worn wooden floor. The opening routine steadied Vivienne after last night’s vison of hidden doorways, watching eyes, and Lily—dead at the hands of Gerald and Winston Aldrich.
The bell above the door chimed. Mrs. Pennington from the historical society entered at eight-thirty, exactly when she arrived every Wednesday morning for the past decade. The older woman held herself rigid, her silver-blond hair styled in an immaculate bob, pearls gleaming at her throat despite the early hour.
“Good morning, Vivienne. Earl Grey, if you would.”
“Of course.” Vivienne prepared the woman’s usual order. “Anything to accompany it today?”
Mrs. Pennington’s perfectly manicured fingers tapped against her handbag. “Actually, I came to inquire about your visit with the police detective yesterday. Velta Wright mentioned seeing him here after hours.”
The book club gossip network operated with remarkable efficiency. Vivienne kept her expression neutral as she set theteapot to steep. “Detective Harrington had questions about local history. Given the current situation with the missing tourist, I thought it prudent to assist however possible.”
“How civic-minded.” The condescension dripped from Mrs. Pennington’s voice. Her right eye twitched, a nervous tic Vivienne had observed only during board meetings when the woman felt threatened. “And did he mention visiting the historical society archives? We have the most comprehensive records of Westerly Cove’s past, after all.”
“I believe he intends to explore all available resources. Though perhaps you could save him time. Records from the 1990s would be particularly relevant, I imagine.”
Alarm flickered across Mrs. Pennington’s face before her usual mask slipped back into place. “The lighthouse records? Whatever for?”
“The missing woman researched New England lighthouses, particularly their role during Prohibition.”
“An unfortunate coincidence.” Mrs. Pennington reached for her tea with trembling hands. “Bringing up old rumors about smuggling and such. Hardly relevant to her disappearance, I should think.”
“Perhaps. Though coincidences accumulate. The timing, the location . . . it reminds many people of Lily Morgan.”
The teacup clattered against its saucer. Mrs. Pennington leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your family brings darkness. Always has. The town tolerates it because we need you, but we fear you more.”
The words stopped Vivienne’s hand mid-pour. Her grandmother’s warnings echoed, about those who silenced the truth-tellers, who preferred comfortable lies to uncomfortable realities.
“My family has served this town through the ages. We’ve helped solve crimes, found lost children, provided comfort to thegrieving. If that brings darkness, then perhaps the problem isn’t with us but with those who prefer ignorance to truth.”
Mrs. Pennington’s face flushed. “The Hawthornes have always been troublesome. Too curious about matters that don’t concern them. Look what happened to your mother.”
The mention of Cordelia struck, but Vivienne kept her expression neutral. “My mother’s death . . .” Vivienne couldn’t continue.
“Was it? Or did she ask too many questions about the wrong families? Emmeline knew when to keep quiet. Cordelia never learned that lesson.”
Mrs. Pennington stood, leaving her tea half-finished. “A word of advice, Vivienne. Some secrets exist for good reason. Not everything that’s buried should be dug up.” She paused at the door. “Especially not by outsiders who don’t understand our town’s complexities.”
After she left, Vivienne stood in the quiet shop. Mrs. Pennington’s fear was genuine, and frightened people often became dangerous.
The morning passed with regular customers, but Vivienne’s mind remained on last night’s conversation with Brooks and her certainty that Melissa Clarkson’s disappearance connected directly to Lily Morgan’s fate. The pattern was too precise to be coincidental.
Around noon, Brooks arrived, his expression focused and determined. “We need to talk. Is now a good time?”
