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“You sell the legends,” she said. “I’ll tell the history. Between us, the house will tell the story it chooses.”

For an instant, his expression hardened with irritation, amusement, something molten and unreadable. “Stubborn,” he whispered. His smile turned suggestive. “All right, if that’s how you want to play it. I’ll make you good television yet.”

He rose, calling for the crew to wrap, and sauntered toward the front of the mansion.

Amy lingered by the flowers, pressing her hand against her blouse where her heart slammed too fast. Sunlight seared her skin, blossoms swayed bright, and the sea thundered relentlessly. It was her imagination, she knew, but it felt as though the ground stirred beneath her, bones restless under the roots.

For decades, the earth here had kept its secrets.

And now they would be broadcast everywhere.

Amy was still steadying herself when a figure appeared at her side, clipboard in hand. Shannon Green, the producer, moved as if she were on military maneuvers, with no wasted movement or words.

“Good interview,” Shannon said. She didn’t sound like she was giving praise but instead stating a fact that the camera had captured something usable.

“With some good editing, I suppose,” Amy said, kicking at something in the grass with her toe.

Shannon laughed. “You could say that is a lot of what we do, as you probably have noticed we take a lot of footage. And we do a lot of editing to put together a compelling story. Even when the team captures a real anomaly. They can really interfere with the cameras and give us a lot of static to deal with or cut recording altogether. So, we edit.”

“Static on camera from the… ghosts?” Amy asked.

“That’s right, they mess with the electronics. We often have to re-record to get it right for the show.” Shannon said practically, as though she weren’t giving away any industry secrets.

That’s not where Amy’s head was anyway. Her head was on her nightly walks, the pull she’d been feeling, and the security feed of herself sleepwalking.

Her skin prickled with gooseflesh.

Shannon glanced past Amy toward the path. “Quick question for you. The cottage down by the lane—yours?”

Amy blinked, thrown. “Yes. It’s empty at the moment. Why?”

“We’ve been staying at the Harbor Inn, but rooms are getting scarce. Tourist season’s starting, and Mrs. Foster is fully booked next week. She mentioned the cottage might be available.” Shannon didn’t ask so much as assess, eyes scanning Amy’s expression for the answer before it came. “Would you consider renting it short-term? It would be more efficient for Mason and two of the crew to live closer to the site. Saves commute, saves cost.”

Amy’s stomach churned. It nagged her that Shannon had already been discussing her property with Mrs. Foster, and that meant the whole town knew Dead Reckoning wasn’t just passing through, they were settling in. Everyone would speculate about what was happening at Blackwell Mansion now.

“The cottage is furnished,” Amy said slowly. Kaitlin had moved in with Matt months ago, and though Amy hadn’t had brain space to find a new tenant, she’d had it cleaned and ready. “It could work.”

Shannon’s brisk nod was answer enough. “Good. We’ll talk details tonight. Mason likes to keep his people close, especially with night shoots running late. And,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “we can capture more when we’re at the heart of things.”

Amy let the words pass without comment. But as Shannon strode off toward the vans, she shivered at the thought of Mason sleeping nearby in a place she’d chosen for peace and solitude.

The cottage had been home to Kelsey and Kaitlin, family and friends.

Now, she guessed there was something to keeping friends close but enemies closer.

Chapter 14

The scent hit Sully first. Some kind of oil—floral, woodsy nonsense that pressed into his sinuses until his temples throbbed harder.

Sully rubbed at his brow as he stepped into the new treatment wing. With the crew gone for the day, he meant to check the security of the scaffolding, make sure everything was secure for the night circus that would ensue later. Yet here he was, following the faint hum of music and the unmistakable sounds of Amy’s jingling bracelets.

He found her in one of the massage rooms, hair half pulled loose from its clip, tugging a heavy oak chair across the polished floor. Her breathless grunt and flushed face caught him mid-step.

“Here,” he said automatically, reaching to take the furniture from her grasp. “Where are you going with this?”

She startled and glanced up. Strands of hair dusted across her cheek. “Oh thanks, Sully. Jasper helped with the big pieces. I just need this last one; it’s heavier than it looks.”

“Where?” Sully followed her pointed finger and moved the chair into the corner of the room. As he set it down, his shoulder screamed, and a sharp flare radiated down his arm.