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“Ready for this interview? No need to be nervous. Just act naturally—we’ll stop and start as needed. The magic of retakes,” he said with a grin.
They sat on a bench Amy had restored years ago, long before the deed to the mansion became hers. She’d always pictured herself sitting here to enjoy the gardens. Today, she drew her calm from the place.
“I’m ready,” she said after she took a steadying breath.
Mason gestured for the cameras to roll.
“Let me introduce you all to Amy York, steward of the Blackwell Mansion. This grand house has stood against centuries of storms, and she holds its keys.” His eyes caught hers with just enough glint to unsettle. “Amy, tell us the story of this remarkable place.”
She folded her hands. The scent of lilacs clung to her breath as she began carefully.
“The mansion was built in the late 1800s by Captain Jeremiah Blackwell, a merchant captain whose business crossed the Atlantic. When his vessel was lost to the sea, his widow, Verity Blackwell, oversaw completion of the house.”
Amy paused to gather her breath, the distant tide pulsing in the background.
“Verity was pregnant when she lost her husband. Not long after her own child was born, she opened the house to others. Over the years, it became a home for widows and later for unmarried pregnant women with nowhere to go. Eventually, Verity’s work grew into the New England Foundation for Women, which safeguarded mothers through the 20th century.”
Mason leaned closer, voice rich for the cameras. “A noble history. Yet… there are shadows in every corner, aren’t there? Tell me—three bodies were found buried here after you took ownership and began renovations. Three murders, their bones in the soil beneath our feet.”
Amy’s spine stiffened, but her face stayed composed. “Two murders. Those cases belong to the 1990s. The women… were betrayed.” Her throat caught. She forced strength into the words. “A physician here was conducting an illegal adoption trade. He murdered them when they refused to surrender their children. He used the foundation’s name as cover long after the official work ended.”
The lilacs blurred in her peripheral vision. The surf roared louder in the distance.
Mason’s voice dropped to savor the scandal. “And when the truth finally caught up with him, the doctor threw himself off the cliffs.”
“Yes,” Amy said evenly. “The cliffs east of here. Police declared it a suicide. At the time, no one connected him to the missing women. That link was only discovered after their remains surfaced during renovations last fall.”
Mason tilted his head, theatrics brimming. “Quite a story for such a small island. Missing women, a murderous doctor, justice thirty years late. His spirit must be restless.”
His smile was for the viewers, but the horror flickered across Amy’s face, and Mason caught it. He gestured to cut. The camera light died.
He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. His hand caught hers briefly—too smooth, too warm. “Ghosts sell, Amy. Tragedy sells. We need people guessing which spirits haunt these halls. That’s how we get them to stay glued through commercial breaks, come back for the next episode, and tune in for the next season.”
Amy turned her gaze toward the tulips. Their stems swayed, fragile and oblivious. “This house was more than its tragedies. It deserves more than spectacle.”
“Spectacle brings ratings,” Mason murmured. His teeth flashed. “High ratings bring sponsors. Sponsors bring money for us, for you. Imagine the restoration finished in half the time if Dead Reckoning makes this the season’s obsession.”
Her hands curled tight in her lap. Money mattered. Every bill stacked on her desk reminded her of that. But she steadied her tone. “I’ll give you the facts. Not fan the fires.”
His lips tightened briefly, the mask cracking, then the showman slid back into place. “Of course.” He signaled the crew. “Rolling again.”
He pivoted, his voice velveted for effect. “Tell me, Amy—the third set of bones. Who lay unclaimed in your garden?”
Her stomach sank. She rubbed her thumb across her palm before she spoke. “We don’t know yet. The remains are older. They may even predate the mansion.” Her voice stayed calm with effort.
Mason’s brows shot up in perfectly timed surprise. “Older than the mansion? Fascinating. Perhaps an old burial ground? Perhaps…” He drew out the pause, body leaning toward hers, voice ripe with insinuation. “Native American graves underfoot? Or, better still, a sailor’s cemetery. Widow’s Point has claimed dozens of ships on its rocky shores. Imagine the unknown bodies buried beneath, their ghosts clamoring to be heard.”
The producer behind the lens nearly sighed in delight. Ratings were written all over her face.
Amy, though, kept her eyes fixed on the tulips, scarlet against freshly raked beds. Bones beneath flowers. Secrets kept for decades in the dirt. The ground felt cool against her soles.
“There’s much we don’t know,” she said at last, taut but steady. “We have a forensic anthropologist working to identify the remains.”
Mason’s smile held, but a darker glint shadowed his gaze. He flicked a signal—cut.
“All noble,” he said softly, voice stripped of charm. “But noble doesn’t hold audiences past the first act. Ghost stories do. You want this house saved? Let me sell it.” He bent too close, breath brushing her cheek. “And you’ll thank me when the check clears.”
Amy shot to her feet, heels pressed into the daffodil border. The sweet scent spiked sharply in her throat. She squared her shoulders.
