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Amy smiled. “You’re hired.”

“Perfect. You could use all of them.” Kaitlin said. “I think you need photos to tell the story, maybe include some of the older documents on the house and the Blackwells I’ve collected. Maybe sunrise over the veranda with the lilacs in bloom. Maybe Sully and his new railing—show the craftsmanship and the human element of his connection to the Blackwells.”

Amy leaned back, content. For the first time in months, the word normal didn’t seem imaginary.

Then her phone buzzed.

“It’s Matt.” Amy leaned forward to share the screen with Kaitlin.

Matt: You might want to see this.

A link followed.Amy tapped it, and the world shifted.

The video loaded instantly. It was an early-morning Portland news segment with a glossy logo—The Murder Mansion makes Primetime.

Her own face appeared on screen, lifted straight from Dead Reckoning footage—mid-sentence, anxiety etched across it. Then it cut to the promo clips from the show, returning to their own headlines from last year. Human Remains Found at Island Murder Mansion.

The reporter, with a serious look on her face, looked straight into the camera with the Dead Reckoning clips running behind her. “Once the site of a historic tragedy, Widow’s Point Island is making headlines again tonight after shocking new footage surfaced from the hit paranormal series Dead Reckoning. The paranormal ghost hunting crew is claiming they’ve found some revealing evidence that spirits still walk the halls of the infamous mansion on Widow’s Point Island, where the buried remains of two murdered women were discovered last year. It appears the dead are continuing to tell their tales from beyond.”

The past year’s footage of careful police interviews distorted into a montage of paranormal sensationalism with clips from Dead Reckoning episodes. When the clip ended, Amy stared at the black screen, unable to breathe.

Beside her, Kaitlin whispered, “Oh. My. God.”

Across the top of the phone, notifications from the retreat’s new social media pages piled up—mentions, tags, reposts. #MurderMansion was trending.

Amy closed her eyes. Kaitlin reached out to touch her hand.

Before she could take a breath. Amy’s phone pinged again:Reservation canceled.Then another. And another.

Each alert tightened the knot in her chest. All her work, all the cautious rebranding, undone in a morning.

“It’s over,” she said flatly. “People will never see this place as anything but a joke.”

Kaitlin reached for her arm as Amy stood hastily, snapped her laptop shut, and shoved it into her bag.

“We expected this, remember? That’s why we’re pushing back. We’ll send a press release—tell the authentic story,” Kaitlin implored.

“They don’t want real,” Amy said, voice cracking. “They want ghosts. A disaster, like me, to report on.”

She turned abruptly, knocking into her chair and causing it to scrape loudly on the tile. She blinked hard to keep herself from crying in the middle of the café. “I need some air.”

By the time she reached the estate, the sea wind had picked up again, scattering last season’s leaves across the narrow drive. Sully was cleaning varnish from his hands near his truck as she approached.

“Hey. How’d the meeting—” He stopped at her face. “What happened?”

Amy wordlessly handed him the phone, replaying the clip. He watched in silence, jaw tightening.

He shut the phone off and handed it back. “Unbelievable.”

“Seems the world likes its ghosts. And newsworthy disasters.” Amy gave a short laugh that wasn’t laughter. “Three cancelations so far. Maybe more.”

Sully said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, “You did nothing wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “No one’s coming here for healing, massages, or yoga, or workshops now. They’ll come looking for cold spots and EVP meter readings.” Her voice cracked.

He stepped closer, but she turned away to stare toward the mansion’s wide steps.

“I’m so tired, Sully. Tired of defending myself, defending this place. Of scraping together money.”