Page 70 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

I immediately look offended. "I wasn't avoiding you."

"You were standing outside my clinic like a suspicious seagull."

I stare. Lisa grins. The woman has spent entirely too much time around Finn.

Before I can defend myself, she disappears back inside, leaving me standing there, smiling despite myself.

The lighthouse feels different after sunset. Quieter. Older. The shadows seem longer, the memories feel closer.

I climb the stairs carrying a lantern. The warm glow dances across familiar walls, across bookshelves, across cabinets, across belongings that once belonged to my grandmother. My gaze settles on the diary resting near the table. The sea relic. The hurricane. The secrets hidden inside those pages.

A thought has been bothering me all day. If my grandmother left one journal discussing the relic, why stop there? The question refuses to leave me alone.

I set the lantern down, then begin searching. Drawers. Cabinets. Shelves. Storage chests. Nothing. Dust coats everything. Old letters. Maps. Weather records. The ordinary remains stubbornly ordinary.

I lean against a bookshelf, frustration building. Gran wasn't careless. She never would have hidden something important in an obvious place.

The realization stops me. Hidden.

My gaze slowly travels around the room, then lands on the bookshelf again. I walk back, carefully, examining, touching, searching. One section feels different. The wood shifts slightly beneath my hand. My pulse quickens.

"No way."

I press harder. A soft click answers. The panel moves. I freeze, then stare, then laugh. Of course. Of course she built a hidden compartment. The woman treated ordinary solutions like personal insults.

The panel slides open. A narrow space waits behind it. Inside rests a stack of journals tied together with faded cord. My heart begins racing. I carefully lift them free. The leather covers are older than the diary. Older than most things in the lighthouse.

Dust rises as I open the first one. My grandmother's handwriting immediately greets me. The sight sends a familiar ache through my chest. I miss her. Stars, I miss her.

The ache remains. But determination pushes me forward.

I turn pages, then more pages. The entries become increasingly detailed. Storm activity. Council meetings. Ward repairs. Concerns. Warnings. The deeper I read, the more serious the journal becomes.

Then I find it. The relic. Not a passing reference. Not a brief mention. Pages. Entire pages.

My pulse pounds loudly. I sit down immediately. The journal trembles slightly in my hands. The entries describe arguments among harbor leaders. Disputes. Secrets. Meetings hidden from public knowledge.

Then another entry catches my attention. I stop breathing.

The relic was used.

I read the sentence repeatedly. The words refuse to change. Used. Not discovered. Not discussed. Used.

My heart pounds harder. I continue reading. The original hurricane wasn't natural. The power of the relic was harnessed. Directed. Manipulated. The storm wasn't simply allowed to happen. Someone shaped it. Someone turned it into something worse.

My hands tighten around the journal. The room disappears. The lighthouse disappears. Only the words remain.

The next pages explain why. Not completely but certain leaders wanted control. Certain voices wanted power. Fear made people easy to guide. Easy to influence. Easy to control.

My stomach turns. The hurricane. The blame, the accusations, storm witches blames, my family. None of it happened by chance.

The room feels suddenly too small. I rise from the chair, begin pacing. The journal remains clutched tightly in my hand. Gran knew. She knew.

The entries become increasingly desperate. More warnings. More fear. More urgency. Then the final truth lands.

My family was framed.

The words aren't written directly. They don't need to be. The evidence is everywhere. My grandmother tried to expose it. Nobody listened. The town chose the easier story. Storm witches became the villains. The real culprits disappeared into history.