Page 19 of Widow’s Walk

Amy pulled back, and they looked at each other. The air crackled between them. Sully turned first, rising to his feet. “Have Kelsey look at it tomorrow if looks infected.”

Before Sully turned back, she was gone, dashing into the night with Ollie trotting at her heels. She didn’t look back. Her mind spun with too many thoughts to make sense of any of them.

All she knew was that if she had stayed, she would have made a very bad decision.

That night, Amy dreamed of stairs. Endless steps spiraled upward in the dark, her hand trailing along a cold wall as she climbed. The air grew sharper the higher she went, salt wind stinging her cheeks and tangling her hair. Above, a faint glimmer of moonlight beckoned. She stepped onto the widow’s walk with her heart pounding; the sea raged vast and black beneath her, the taste of brine on her lips.

She woke with a start, breath hitching, sheets twisted around her legs. For a moment she thought she was still up there, the crash of waves echoing in her chest. Kicking off the covers, she swung her legs to the floor—and froze.

Her bare feet were gritty and grass-stained, speckled with soil and sand. She rubbed her thumb across her heel, and flakes of dried dirt crumbled onto the hardwood floor.

“What on earth…” she whispered. Ollie stirred in his bed, one ear twitching, but didn’t lift his head.

Amy padded carefully to the bathroom, heart still pounding harder than it should. She perched on the edge of the claw-foot tub, rinsing her feet under the tap until the water ran clear. The sting of the cool water against her skin made her shiver. “I probably let Ollie out again and just forgot,” she muttered. Even as she said it, she knew it didn’t ring true.

When she reached for a towel, her gaze caught on her hand. The bandage Sully had wrapped around her palm earlier was still in place, the gauze dulled to a dusky pink. She remembered his rough fingers steadying hers, his surprising gentleness. Her cheeks flushed. She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, feeling the tender throb of the wound beneath the fabric.

Her imagination was working overtime. That had to be it. Stress, the kiss, the constant spiral of deadlines… they were stealing her sleep.

And yet.

The dream clung stubbornly, as vivid as waking. She could still feel the iron railing cold against her palms, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face. Could still see the narrow edge of the widow’s walk as the sea surged far below.

Amy slid back under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. Ollie lifted his head just long enough to huff softly before resettling. She lay on her side, staring into the darkness until her eyes burned.

Just a dream, she told herself again. Only her restless mind.

But as she drifted back toward uneasy sleep, the image refused to let go. Her hair blowing toward the sky, high above the mansion, the sea calling her name.

Unspoken. Unsettling. And somehow, inevitable.

By dawn Amy had almost convinced herself the dream was only stress and shadows.

Chapter 8

The late morning light filled the small office above Main Street, bouncing off stacks of case files and the soft gleam of her attorney’s glasses.

Amy sat across from Christian Delaney, sipping lukewarm coffee while he flipped through the pages of the Dead Reckoning contract with his usual patience. His pen made faint ticks along the margins, his brow furrowed in thought.

Finally, he set the papers down and looked up.

“Well, Amy, nothing here screams trouble,” he said. “It’s a pretty straightforward production contract.”

She exhaled, half relieved, half nervous.

“According to this,” he replied, tapping the header with his pen. “They’ll conduct investigations mainly at night, which is standard for their type of show. They’ll be bringing in their own filming and lighting equipment, but you’re not responsible for damages to that. However,”—he lifted a finger—“anything they record on your property belongs to them. All footage, all interviews, all appearances, all likeness. That means you, your staff, your contractors—anyone caught on camera becomes part of their intellectual property.”

Amy frowned. “Even casual conversation?”

“If the microphones catch it,” he said. “They can also edit it as they like. Just like other reality TV shows, the story that airs might not be what actually happened. They’re more interested in ratings than the actual truth.”

She looked at the papers again. Shoot dates, crew access, indemnity clauses. Straightforward, yes, but still unsettling to think of her house—the place she’d poured her savings and sanity into—becoming footage for an audience she’d never meet.

“Would you sign it?” she asked quietly.

Delaney smiled just a little. “If you’re comfortable with the exposure, and you understand what control you’re giving them, yes. There’s nothing predatory here. Just make sure any of your people, your contractors, and the construction crew know that by being on site during filming, they’re essentially consenting to appear.”

Amy nodded, tracing the rim of her coffee cup.