Page 10 of Widow’s Walk

Then a crash came from upstairs.

Men’s voices followed—sharp, angry, tangled in accusation.

Sully was already moving before he realized it, boot heels striking the stairs.

Sully ran up the stairs and cut down the hallway, heart hammered against his ribs. This was a sound you knew wasn’t just dropped tools.

He pushed open the door to the east wing bedroom, where all the crew had gathered. A ladder lay sprawled on its side, and a work light flickered against the wall.

Garrett was on his feet but pale, he clutched his shoulder, fury twisted his face. Across from him, Charlie stood rigid, jaw set. The rest of the crew stood between them.

“What the hell happened?” Sully demanded.

Garrett pointed with an unsteady hand. “He pushed me! I was up there checking the vent—next thing I know, I’m flying backward. Landed right on my shoulder.”

Charlie’s nostrils flared. “You slipped. Don’t blame me because you can’t hold your balance.”

“I didn’t.”

“Enough.” Sully’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He shoved the ladder upright and planted it against the wall again. “Everybody take a breath.”

Garrett’s hands were still shaking. “I swear I felt a shove. Hard. Could’ve broken my neck.”

Sully looked down; the ladder’s feet were steady, the floor dry—no reason for a fall. He met Charlie’s eyes, then swept his gaze across the rest of the group.

“I don’t care if it’s ghosts, gremlins, or one of you trying to have a laugh,” he said, letting the words bite. “It stops now. Hiding tools is one thing, but messing with men on ladders is another. Somebody could’ve been killed.”

The silence that followed prickled. They looked from one to another, faces flickering between guilt and confusion.

One by one, the denials came.“It wasn’t me.”“I was downstairs.”“I didn’t see anyone near the ladder.”

Sully studied them for the twitch of a lie but found only unsettled faces.

“Fine,” he said at last, forcing calm into his voice. “Let’s clean this up and call it a day. No more games.”

He stooped to coil the cord of the fallen light. The crew gathered their tools. The air in the room felt colder now, sharp around the edges.

Somewhere below, a door slammed. Hard.

Everyone froze for half a second.

“Wind,” Charlie muttered. “One of those new doors.”

Sully didn’t respond.

The sound hadn’t been a gust in the breeze.

And as he stepped out onto the landing, the hairs at the back of his neck rose.

What the hell was going on here?

By the time Sully got Garrett checked out at the island clinic and back to the ferry dock, the whole day had slipped sideways. Garrett was bruised but fine—nothing broken, just sore pride and a rattled shoulder.

He dropped his truck into gear and headed home. The late afternoon light slanted across the road, with the gulls coasting low over the bay. All he wanted was a shower, some dinner, maybe an hour with his sketchbook before bed.

When he turned into his drive, he saw a familiar dark sedan parked beside his workshop. His stomach sank.

His father was sitting on the porch steps, boots planted, tweed cap in hand. Waiting.