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)
“I want to be here.” The words came quickly, surprising them both. “Not as a skeptic anymore. As . . . support. And because you might learn something that helps the investigation.”
Warmth spread through Vivienne’s chest. Weeks ago, he would have mocked the very idea of attending a séance. Now he stood in her shop offering partnership, maybe even something more.
“Thank you.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Then the shop bell chimed.
A man entered—mid-thirties, sandy brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, expensive but rumpled clothing that showed the wear of recent stress. He looked around the shop with an expression that combined relief and uncertainty.
“Detective Harrington,” he said. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I’m Daniel Clarkson. Melissa’s husband,” he said to Vivienne.
Vivienne felt that familiar prickle of intuition immediately. Something about this man set off warning bells she couldn’t quite identify.
Brooks straightened, his expression professionally neutral. “Mr. Clarkson. I’m glad Melissa’s been reunited with you. How is she doing?”
“Still pretty shaken up. The doctors want to keep her under observation for another day or two.” Daniel’s hand moved to his wedding ring, twisting it. “I wanted to thank you both personally. Ms. Hawthorne, I understand you were instrumental in finding her.”
“I helped where I could,” Vivienne said carefully, studying him. His gratitude appeared genuine, but underneath she sensed something else. Anxiety? Fear? She couldn’t quite place it.
“The FBI has been asking me a lot of questions about our marriage, about Melissa’s research.” His voice carried a note of frustration. “I don’t understand why they’re treating me like a suspect when I’m the victim’s husband.”
Brooks’s tone remained even. “Standard procedure in cases like this, Mr. Clarkson. We have to investigate all angles.”
“I suppose.” Daniel’s gaze shifted to Vivienne, assessing. “Can you really communicate with spirits? Or is it more of a . . . intuition thing?”
The question felt like a test. Vivienne chose her words carefully. “I receive impressions from objects, places, sometimes from spirits who want to communicate. It’s not always clear or linear.”
“But you found my wife. So it works.” He pulled a small silver bracelet from his pocket. “This is Melissa’s. She left it at our hotel before she went missing. Could you . . . I don’t know, make sure there’s nothing we’re missing? Nothing the FBI should know about?”
Vivienne took the bracelet, and images flooded her mind immediately. But they weren’t what she expected. Arguments. Financial strain. Fear—not Melissa’s fear of the Aldriches, but Daniel’s fear of something being discovered. The emotions were jumbled, contradictory.
She set it down quickly. “I’m getting conflicting impressions. Sometimes recent trauma creates too much interference for clear readings.”
Daniel studied her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “But you sensed something.”
“Only confusion. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thank you for trying.” He turned back to Brooks. “When can I take Melissa home? Back to Portland? She needs to be away from this place.”
“That’s between her and her doctors,” Brooks said. “And the FBI may need her available for testimony.”
“Right. Of course.” Daniel glanced around the shop again, his eyes tracking details—the layout, the exits, the other customers browsing. “I should get back to the hospital. Just wanted to say thank you.”
After he left, Dawn emerged from the back room where she’d been arranging chairs.
“That man is lying,” Dawn said flatly.
“You felt it too?”
“I don’t have your gifts, but I have instincts. And my instincts say Melissa’s husband knows more than he’s telling.” Dawn crossed her arms. “You need to be careful tonight. If Daniel Clarkson is involved with whatever Melissa discovered, he might be working with the Aldriches.”
“I know. But we can’t prove anything yet. Just suspicions and bad feelings.”
“Your suspicions have been right about everything else so far,” Brooks added.
By evening, the back room had filled with participants. Martha Morgan arrived first, her determination evident despite obvious exhaustion. Gunner from the harbor master’s office came with his wife, both looking nervous but resolute. Mrs. Mayer brought her sister, whose son had disappeared in a “boating accident” three years ago. Velta Wright, who’d lost her husband to a suspicious fall from the lighthouse in 1995, sat quietly in the corner.
And to Vivienne’s surprise, old Jack from the docks hobbled in, his weathered face set in grim lines.
“Figured it was time I stopped pretending I didn’t see things,” he said. “Been watching boats come and go from that lighthouse for forty years. Seen plenty that didn’t make sense.”
Dawn took her position at the circle’s southern point while Vivienne stood at the north. Brooks remained in the main shop area, close enough to respond if anything went wrong but giving the participants space.
“Join hands,” Vivienne said softly. “We’re here to listen to those who died seeking truth. They want justice, not revenge. Stay calm no matter what you hear.”
The gathering began with her grandmother’s words, that old language resonating through the room. The temperature dropped several degrees. Candle flames steadied into perfect stillness.