Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“There’s something else,” Martha said. “May I show you?”
She stood and led the way upstairs. The bedroom door stood open. Time had stopped inside—band posters on the walls, textbooks stacked on the desk, clothes folded in the dresser waiting for their owner to return. But her psychic senses recoiled from the space. The room hummed with unnatural energy, the air thick with the residue of violent death and unfinished business.
“Sometimes I hear typing. From her computer. Late at night, when the wind is right.” Martha’s voice trembled. “The machine hasn’t been turned on in twenty-five years, but I hear the keys clicking.”
A chill ran down her spine. The spirit was still here, still trapped, still trying to communicate the truth she’d died protecting.
On the desk sat an old laptop computer, its screen dark, surrounded by notebooks—personal journals Martha had kept separate from the research materials she’d given Brooks. One lay open, the final entry dated the day she disappeared: “I know what they’re hiding. God help me, I know what they’ve done.”
“I’d like to touch some of her belongings, if you’re comfortable with that.”
Martha nodded, backing toward the doorway. “I’ll be downstairs. I can’t watch. But if it helps find that Clark girl, if it brings Lily some peace . . .”
Alone in the dead girl’s room, she approached the desk with careful reverence. She pulled off her gloves and placed her bare palm against the surface where the final hours alive had been spent, working frantically to document whatever terrible truth had been uncovered.
The experience hit her with physical force.
Lily crouched in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage at night, her camera clicking as she photographed documents spread across a desk. She worked with precision, recording each shipping manifest, each financial record, each piece of evidence.
The vision shifted. Lily climbed down into the tunnels, her flashlight cutting through darkness as she photographed hidden chambers, stolen artifacts, the infrastructure of a criminal empire. Her hands stayed steady, her focus absolute, even as fear tightened her features.
The chase ended in the central chamber. Winston Aldrich blocked her escape route. Lily backed against the stone wall, holding her camera against her chest.
“You don’t understand what you’re interfering with,” Winston’s voice carried practiced reasonableness. “This operation provides for hundreds of families.”
“You’ve killed people. Seventeen people who discovered the truth.”
Gerald Aldrich moved from the shadows. Terror spiked as she recognized the violence in the old man’s eyes.
“Give us the camera and the documentation. We’ll make this quick. An accident. Your family will be compensated.”
“No.” Her hand moved to the pendant at her throat—a protective charm. “The truth matters more than my life.”
Gerald Aldrich lunged forward. The cold water of the rising tide. The desperate struggle as both men held her down. In her final moments of consciousness, pressing the small recording device deeper into a crevice in the rock wall, praying someone would find it someday.
“Find it,” her spirit whispered as her body sank into dark water. “Someone will come who can see. Someone will finish this.”
She jerked her hand back from the desk, gasping. Blood ran from her nose in a steady stream, and when she touched her throat, she found finger-shaped bruises already forming on her skin—bruises that matched the grip of the killers.
Each experience stole something from her—a memory, a year of life, a piece of her sanity. She wondered how many she had left before the account came due.
“I know what happened. I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
The temperature dropped, and for a moment, a translucent figure materialized beside the desk. Seventeen forever, dark hair floating. The spirit’s mouth moved urgently, forming words without sound, but she understood with perfect clarity:
“He’s still here. Still killing. Stop him.”
Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of seawater and the weight of an obligation she couldn’t refuse.
Downstairs, Martha took one look at her bloodstained face and the bruises darkening on her throat and began to weep. “You saw it, didn’t you? You saw what they did to my baby.”
She nodded, accepting the towel Martha pressed into her hands. “Gerald and Winston Aldrich. They drowned her in the tunnels because she discovered proof of their smuggling operations.”
Martha’s face went white. “Both of them.” Her voice turned bitter. “Gerald’s still the lighthouse keeper. Winston’s the mayor. They’ve been walking around this town for twenty-five years, attending town meetings, shaking hands, pretending to be good men.” Her hands clenched into fists. “And all that time, they knew exactly where she was because they’d put her there themselves.”
“Did Lily ever mention their names specifically in her research?”
“She was careful not to say too much. But after she disappeared, after Robert started asking questions, he was let go, and then died . . .” Martha’s voice grew stronger with anger. “I started putting the pieces together. The Aldriches control access to the lighthouse. They’ve been protecting those secrets for decades.”