Chapter 7: The Lighthouse

The old lighthouse stood like a sentinel against the pre-dawn sky, its paint peeling in long strips that resembled claw marks in the beam of their flashlights. Waves crashed against the rocks below with hypnotic regularity—a sound that made Cora's skin crawl with unexplainable dread.

"Coast Guard maintains the building but it's not operational," she said as they approached the locked entrance. "No full-time staff since '86."

"Someone's been here recently," Reid observed, pointing to fresh tire tracks in the muddy access road. "Within the last day or two."

The padlock on the door had been cut and replaced with one that only appeared secure. Reid made quick work of it with a set of picks he produced from his pocket.

"Breaking and entering is still a crime, even for private investigators," Cora noted dryly.

"Feel free to call for a warrant," he replied. "I'm going in."

The door swung open with a groan that echoed through the circular tower. Stale air rushed out to meet them, carrying the scent of mildew, salt, and something else—something metallic and organic that Cora recognized instantly.

"Blood," she murmured, drawing her service weapon. "Recent."

Reid nodded, producing his own gun. They moved inside with practiced coordination that felt familiar despite never having worked together before—another piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.

The ground floor was empty except for maintenance equipment and old furniture covered in dust cloths. Nothing appeared disturbed. The blood scent grew stronger as they ascended the spiral staircase, flashlight beams cutting through darkness thick as water.

Halfway up, Reid paused, head tilted as if listening. "Do you hear that?"

Cora strained her ears. Beneath the sound of waves came something else—a soft, rhythmic tapping. Like fingernails against glass.

"Second level," she whispered.

The room that had once been the lighthouse keeper's quarters was transformed. Black fabric covered the windows. Dozens of photographs hung from the ceiling on clear fishing line, twisting gently in the air currents—all Polaroids, all faded completely white. In the center of the room stood a table laid out like an altar, bearing three feathers, three stones, and a collection of personal items Cora recognized from the victim reports: Marina Hanover's bracelet, Jennifer Larson's watch, the third victim's ring.

But it was the walls that made Cora's breath catch. Every inch was covered in handwritten text—names, dates, detailed descriptions of nightmares identical to those reported by the victims. Among them, she spotted her own name. And beside it, Mason Reid's.

"He knows who we are," she said softly. "He's been watching us."

Reid moved to the wall, studying the writing. "These dates go back decades. Generations of nightmares, all with the same pattern." He traced a name with his finger. "Gregory Winters was tracking this before he disappeared. These are his notes."

"Copied by our killer," Cora added, examining another section. "Look at the handwriting changes. Multiple authors."

The tapping sound came again, louder now. They both turned toward a door at the back of the room—a closet or storage area, secured with a heavy padlock.

They approached carefully, weapons ready. The tapping intensified, desperate now. Reid nodded to Cora, who positioned herself to cover him as he examined the lock.

"Someone's in there," he whispered.

"Or something," she countered.

The lock required a key they didn't have. Reid stepped back, aimed carefully, and shot it off in one clean motion. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

Cora moved forward, using her foot to push the door open while keeping her weapon trained on the darkness beyond.

Inside, huddled against the far wall, was Eliza Markowski—alive but barely conscious, her fingernails broken and bloody from tapping against the wooden door. Beside her lay another woman Cora didn't recognize, unmoving.

"Call for backup and medical," Cora ordered, holstering her weapon to check Eliza's pulse. "She's alive but she's been drugged."

Reid was already on the phone, requesting immediate assistance. As Cora turned her attention to the second woman, checking for signs of life, Eliza's hand shot out with surprising strength, gripping Cora's wrist.

"He knows," she rasped, her eyes unfocused. "He knows you remember."

"Who knows?" Cora asked, trying to calm the woman. "Remember what?"

"The water," Eliza whispered. "What's beneath the water. What we all agreed to forget."

A chill ran down Cora's spine. Before she could ask more questions, Eliza's eyes rolled back and she lost consciousness again.

The second woman was dead—had been for at least 24 hours, Cora estimated. Her wrists bore ligature marks, but the cause of death appeared to be an injection. On her forehead, drawn in what looked like black marker, was a crude symbol: a circle with a wavy line through it.

"Caroline Webb," Reid said quietly, kneeling beside the body. "And that symbol—it's the same one from your board."

Cora looked up sharply. "What are you talking about? There was no symbol on my evidence board."

"Not on the board," he clarified. "In your research notes. The symbol you've been drawing unconsciously while working on this case."

She stared at him, unnerved. She had no memory of drawing any symbols, yet the mark on Caroline's forehead triggered the same sense of familiarity that Reid's presence did—a knowing that came from somewhere beyond conscious thought.

The wail of approaching sirens broke the moment. As law enforcement and medical personnel swarmed the lighthouse, Cora found herself watching Reid—the efficient way he handled the scene, the respect officers showed him despite his PI status, the careful distance he maintained from her throughout the processing.

It wasn't until hours later, as dawn broke over the horizon, that they found themselves alone again. Eliza had been transported to the hospital under guard. Caroline's body was en route to the medical examiner. Crime scene technicians were still cataloging the "altar room," as they'd dubbed it.

Cora stood at the edge of the cliff, watching waves crash against the rocks below. Reid approached, offering a cup of coffee from the emergency services truck.

"She'll survive," he said. "The doctors say Eliza was drugged with the same cocktail found in the other victims. Designed to induce a semi-conscious state while enhancing dream activity."

"Did they find the same injection mark?" Cora asked.

Reid nodded. "Back of the neck, base of the skull. Precision placement suggesting medical knowledge."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the ocean. The rhythm of the waves matched the pounding in Cora's head—a familiar pressure that always preceded her worst episodes.

"You need to tell me the truth," she said finally. "No more lies about how we know each other. No more vague references to shared experiences I supposedly don't remember. If we're going to catch this killer, I need to know what I'm missing."

Reid's expression closed off. "You're not ready for that."

"That's not your decision to make."

"It is when telling you could do more harm than good." His voice remained steady, but Cora caught the underlying tension. "There are reasons you don't remember, Cora. Good reasons."

The use of her first name felt intimate in a way that should have bothered her but didn't. "These killings are connected to whatever happened at Blackwood Lake, aren't they? The incident you mentioned."

He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. "Yes."

"And we were both there."

Another nod, more reluctant this time. "Yes."

"Then I need to know what happened." She turned to face him fully. "Someone is killing people who share our nightmares, Reid. My name is on that wall in there, right next to yours. Whatever you're protecting me from—it's already found me."

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost lost beneath the sound of the waves. "We need to go to Blackwood Lake. Today. I can't explain it—you need to see for yourself."

Before she could respond, Lambert approached, his expression grim. "We've got a problem. The symbol on Caroline Webb's forehead? It matches markings found at a crime scene twenty years ago. Three children drowned at Blackwood Lake. Only two bodies were recovered."

Cora felt the world tilt beneath her feet. Something cold and dark pressed against the edges of her consciousness—memories fighting to surface.

"The third child was never found," Lambert continued. "Case was officially ruled an accident, but the lead investigator always believed otherwise. He documented identical symbols carved into the ice around the break point."

"Who was the investigator?" Cora asked, though she already knew the answer somehow.

"Detective James Evans," Lambert said. "Your father."