That wasn’t entirely true. She could still see it as clearly as the day it had struck her—standing in the shop two weeks ago, cataloging tea varieties when vertigo hit and the world spun away. She’d found herself elsewhere, watching a man slumped at a desk in a harsh fluorescent-lit police station, blood on his hands that wasn’t literal but she could see it clinging to him. A woman’s name on his lips: “Traci.” Then his head had lifted, and she’d seen eyes the color of midnight storms, haunted and desperate. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m requesting a transfer. Anywhere. Just away from here.”
The scene had shifted to a bus station. The same man stood before a schedule board, one name glowing brighter than theothers: WESTERLY COVE. His finger had hesitated over the ticket machine. “Why there? I haven’t thought about that place in twenty years.” But his hand had moved without conscious decision, selecting Westerly Cove.
She couldn’t tell him any of that. Not yet. Men like Brooks Harrington—practical, logical, carrying the weight of cases solved and lives lost—didn’t want to hear that a tea shop owner had watched their breakdown in visions days before they arrived.
But Brooks Harrington wasn’t ready to hear about auras and psychic impressions.
Not yet.
“Let me get you a fresh coffee.” She turned away before he could question her further and retrieve a clean coffee pot and set the machine to brew another pot. “On the house since you helped with the mess.”
“Thanks, but not necessary. I can pay for my coffee.”
There was an edge in his voice that suggested accepting favors wasn’t something he did easily. Pride or principle, Vivienne wasn’t sure which.
“Suit yourself.” She poured a fresh cup and placed it on the counter between them. “That’ll be three dollars.”
As he handed over the money, their fingers brushed again, and this time Vivienne was prepared for the jolt of awareness. She controlled her reaction, maintaining a pleasant, professional smile.
“So, Detective Harrington, are you here about the missing tourist?” Tension built at the base of her neck as she said it.
Brooks went very still. “How did you know I’m a detective?”
The book club ladies had gone quiet, all of them watching the exchange.
Vivienne realized her mistake too late. She’d picked up on his rank without him mentioning it, a classic slip that had gottenher in trouble before. Her grandmother had always warned her:Never reveal more than they tell you directly. It makes them afraid.
“I didn’t. But you just confirmed it. And you haven’t answered my question.”
Brooks regarded her with narrowed eyes. “I’m not here about any missing tourist. Today’s my day off. I don’t start at the Westerly Cove PD until tomorrow.”
Pieces clicked into place, and Vivienne recognized fate arranging circumstances for reasons she couldn’t yet understand.
“Well then, Detective, welcome to Westerly Cove. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here.”
Outside, the fog had lifted completely, revealing the structure standing clear against the blue sky. The three ravens had vanished from its peak, but Vivienne could still sense a presence there—waiting, watching, carrying secrets that only the dead could know and only she could hear. The wet footprint near Mathilde’s table had begun to evaporate, but its message remained clear: someone who had died near the water was trying to communicate, and the connection to the beacon was growing stronger.
And somehow, she knew with absolute certainty that the new detective in town was about to become involved in whatever truth the spirits were trying to reveal.
TWO
brooks
Brooks Harrington setthe last box down in what would generously be called the living room of his rented cottage. Five cardboard boxes and two suitcases. The sum total of what remained of his life in Austin. He had left most of his furniture behind, sold his condo at a loss, and packed only what he could fit in his sedan for the cross country drive to Rhode Island.
The cottage was smaller than the online photos suggested. Low ceilings forced Brooks, at six foot one, to duck through certain doorways. The photos hadn’t shown the iron horseshoes mounted above every doorway—kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, even the coat closet. When he’d asked about removing them, his landlord insisted they stay. “Previous tenant put them up.” The man avoided his eyes. “Haven’t had any problems since.” His hand touched the horseshoe above the door.
Brooks had noticed salt scattered along every windowsill as well, a thin white line that looked deliberately placed. Odd quirks for a vacation rental, but he wasn’t paying enough rent to complain about the decor.He’d sweep it up later—after three days of driving cross-country, unpacking took priority over whatever quirk the previous tenant had left behind.
A modest kitchen opened into the main living area, where a sagging couch and mismatched armchair faced a stone fireplace. The single bedroom featured a double bed that creaked with each slight movement and a dresser with drawers that stuck unless pulled at precisely the right angle. The bathroom sink dripped, and the floorboards groaned underfoot, but the place was clean and, most importantly, anonymous.
No one in Westerly Cove knew who he was. No one whispered behind his back. No one looked at him with pity and unease the way they had at the Austin Police Department for eleven months.
Brooks moved to the small kitchen window that overlooked the backyard and the dense pine trees beyond. He could just make out a sliver of ocean between the branches.The salty air was unfamiliar, sharp and clean in a way the dry heat of central Texas had never been.Everything about this place was different. The architecture, the vegetation, the pace at which people moved along the streets.The quality of light was clearer and more piercing than the golden haze that had blanketed Austin.
That had been the point, of course. To find somewhere completely unlike Austin. Somewhere without memories lurking around every corner.
His phone buzzed in his pocket for the third time that morning. Brooks pulled it out, grimacing when he saw the caller ID. Jim Benson again. His former partner was persistent, he would give him that. But Brooks had said everything he needed to say before leaving Texas. There was nothing left to discuss, no meaningful comfort Jim could offer, and certainly no way to fix what had happened.
