Page 46 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

His gaze drifts toward the sea. "People become frightened when they don't understand something."

"That sounds exhausting."

Aldric blinks, and I continue walking. A few steps later, he speaks again. "What else are you plotting, Reina?"

The question stops me cold. Not because of the accusation. Because of the certainty behind it.

I turn and he remains standing exactly where I left him, watching, waiting, as though he already knows the answer. A strange chill crawls down my spine, and I look at him differently this time. Not as a harbor elder. Not as a respected leader. Just a man. A man who keeps arriving whenever Reina Quinn becomes the subject. A man who always seems prepared with an answer, even when nobody asked the question.

"I'm not the one plotting."

The words leave quietly. Aldric's expression remains unchanged, the smile returning, polite, controlled. "Have a pleasant evening."

I watch him walk away. The discomfort lingers long after he's gone, and for some reasons I can't fathom, I can’t stop thinking about Finn—about the way he questioned Aldric in the clinic, about the way he always redirects suspicion whenever someone starts asking questions.

The realization settles uneasily. Maybe Finn isn't the only one investigating anymore.

The lighthouse feels quieter than usual, the wind rattling softly against the windows, the ocean crashing below the cliffs. The familiar sounds should feel comforting. Instead, my attention remains fixed on the diary resting open before me.

My grandmother's handwriting fills the page, elegant, precise, unmistakably hers. The sight still hurts. Some grief never learns how to leave.

I turn another page, then another. Most entries focus on weather observations, ward repairs, fishing routes, harbor conditions. Nothing unusual. Nothing useful.

I rub my eyes. Maybe I'm searching for something that doesn't exist. The thought irritates me. Finn would tell me that's a terrible reason to stop. Unfortunately, Finn would be right.

I continue reading, and several pages later, something catches my attention. A single line. Short and easy to miss. She rarely feared storms, rarely feared anything. Yet the words make me sit upright and read them again.

The sea relic remains hidden.

My pulse quickens. I gaze at the page. The entry continues below.

If discovered, the balance of the coast would be forever altered.

The diary suddenly feels much heavier. I flip backward, searching, and several earlier references appear—brief mentions, scattered notes, pieces, fragments, never enough to draw attention, enough to form a pattern.

My pulse begins racing. "No."

I lean closer. The relic appears repeatedly across several years of entries, always vague, always careful, almost as though my grandmother expected someone else to read the diary someday. The realization sends excitement rushing through me.

I continue searching and another entry appears. The relic once answered the tides themselves. I read the words, then the next line. Weather bent around its influence.

My heart skips. Weather manipulation. The phrase lies heavily inside my heart. Storms, currents, distortions, everything we've been investigating. Everything.

I flip pages faster. Several entries reference arguments among elders. Others reference protection, secrecy, warnings. Then the trail abruptly ends. No location. No description. No explanation of where the relic went.

I slump back in frustration. "Of course."

A knock sounds below. I freeze, the timing immediately narrowing the possibilities. Moments later, another knock follows, my pulse becoming annoyingly predictable. I close the diary, then head downstairs.

Finn stands outside. The sight of him immediately eases some of the frustration, which is becoming a problem. A significant one.

His expression changes the moment he sees me. "That's either a very good look or a very bad look."

I step aside. "Come in."

He follows me into the lighthouse, his gaze immediately finding the open books covering my table. "You found something."

I gesture toward the diary. "Maybe."