The base of the lighthouse felt colder than the cliffs outside, as if the stone itself held the memory of the night before. The door groaned when Blake pushed it open, and the stale air inside greeted them like a held breath finally released.
Reeves stepped in behind him, closing the door against the wind. Their footsteps echoed across the narrow circular chamber.
Blake's attention fixed on something immediately—a small scrap of paper lying near the base of the central column, half-crumpled, as if discarded in haste.
He crouched.
Black ink, rushed handwriting:
"Meet me by the light."Signed with a single letter:
R.
Reeves leaned over his shoulder. "R… Rowan Vale?"
"Bag it," Blake said simply.
Reeves slipped it carefully into an evidence pouch.
Blake stood and swept his gaze across the room again—nothing overturned, nothing broken, nothing to suggest a struggle here. Whoever met Dr. Vale had gone higher.
"Let's go up," Blake said.
They began the ascent. The staircase spiralled tightly, a narrow coil of cold metal. Their footsteps clanged softly, swallowed quickly by the curve of the walls.
Halfway up, something glinted faintly on one of the steps.
Blake stopped.
He knelt and picked it up—a silver cufflink, ornate, heavy, engraved with a single letter:
E.
Reeves's eyes widened. "That doesn't belong to Dr. Vale."
"No," Blake said. He pocketed it. "But it belongs to someone who was here with her."
They kept climbing.
At the top, Blake paused at the heavy metal door. The paint was flaked from years of storms, and the hinges groaned as he pushed it open.
The air inside was colder.
A chill that didn't belong in a space meant for warmth and light.
Reeves stepped in after him, boots echoing on the metal floor.
"Jesus…" Reeves whispered.
The maintenance level was small—just a narrow room beneath the lantern housing, cluttered with tools, oil cans, and the mechanical heartbeat of the light's rotating system. But today, everything felt off.
Blake ran a gloved hand along the main railing. Dust was disturbed.Something brushed against it recently.
Reeves lingered near the center, eyes wide. "Sir… look."
A smear of dried brownish-red marked the floor panel near the ladder — subtle, easily missed unless one was looking for it.
Blake knelt. "Blood."
Reeves shivered. "How much?"
"Not enough for her to have died here," Blake said quietly. "But enough to show she was injured before being moved."
He stood and looked up the metal ladder leading into the lantern room.
"Check the hatch frame," Blake said.
Reeves moved to it, hands trembling slightly. "Scratches. Fresh. Someone forced it, same as outside."
"Good," Blake said. "Now smell the air."
Reeves hesitated, then inhaled.
The scent hit him—thin, faint, almost ghostly.
"…almonds," he whispered.
Blake nodded once. "Still here. Cyanide was used in this room."
Reeves looked around again with new eyes—more deliberate this time.
A chair sat askew, one leg slightly scraped against the metal floor.A scarf—thin, patterned—lay half-hidden beneath a toolbox.A small, dark stain marked the edge of the table where tools had been shoved aside.
Blake picked up the scarf with two fingers at its corner, lifting it carefully.
Reeves blinked. "That's hers, isn't it?"
"Most likely" Blake said. "We'll confirm."
He set it aside for evidence.
Then Blake moved toward the tool rack. He stopped.
A single wrench—large, heavy—had a faint smear of something along its handle. Not blood. Something oily, mixed with grit.
"This was used," Blake murmured. "Not last night. Longer ago."
"For what?" Reeves asked.
Blake didn't respond immediately. He inspected the floor near the hatch.
A faint trail led from the chair… to the hatch… then down the ladder.
"She collapsed here," Blake said softly, almost to himself. "Struggled. Someone dragged her to the hatch… then carried her down."
Reeves frowned. "But why bring her outside?"
"To stage a Slip and Fall. To let the tide wash away everything else." Blake looked at him. "They nearly succeeded."
Reeves felt the weight of that. He exhaled shakily.
"Sir… who would do this?"
"People don't kill without reason," he said. "Fear. Anger. Secrets. Pick one and follow it."
Reeves nodded slowly. "Where do we start?"
Blake stepped away from the hatch, the draft tugging at his coat.
"With her life," he said. "Everyone she saw. Everything she touched. And anyone who needed her quiet."
Reeves moved toward a stack of crates near the wall. Something metallic caught his eye.
"Sir… here."
Blake knelt and reached under the crate. A small, cold object met his fingers.
A key. Old. Worn. Marked with a number.
"Bag it," Blake said, handing it to Reeves. "No one loses a key in a place like this unless they're rushing. Or panicking."
Reeves sealed it away. "Sir… her home is just above the bay. Vale Residency. Her husband keeps a greenhouse behind it. And from here—"
He pointed through the cracked hatch, toward the fog-blurred outline of the town.
"You can even see the Anchor Inn from here."
Blake stepped to the hatch and looked out. The fog wrapped the buildings below like shrouds, softening every edge.
"All the pieces are close," Blake murmured. "Too close."
He turned back into the room, scanning it one last time—the disturbed dust, the small blood trail, the faint almond scent clinging stubbornly to the cold metal.
The silence in the lighthouse felt heavy. Not the quiet of abandonment, but the quiet of something that didn't want to be heard.
Blake exhaled.
"Let's go," he said.
They began their descent, the metal stairs groaning beneath them.
As they moved downward, Blake's thoughts followed them like shadows.
He wondered—not for the first time—whether the silence in St. Ives was really silence…or simply the fear of sound.