Page 50 of Widow’s Walk

“All right,” she said, raising her voice just enough to command attention. “Everyone hold up. Diego, when did you say your shift ends?”

“Around four,” he replied.

“And Mason, you agreed to the after-hours access when we started. But what I’m hearing is that you want full run of the mansion for the weekend, correct?”

“Preferably,” he said quickly.

“Fine,” Amy said before either could argue. “Construction crew finishes out the day without disturbance. Ghost hunters have the house for the weekend. Sunday night—or Monday morning—you tear down your gear so work can resume Monday at seven a.m. Deal?”

There was a long silence, then begrudging nods from both sides.

“Great,” Amy said, exhaling in relief. “Now, Diego, I brought pastries—they’re in the truck if you want to grab them for the crew. Mason, try to avoid provoking the living for the next few hours, okay?”

Mason grinned, unoffended. “You got it, boss.”

By the time the shouting ceased, Amy felt wrung out. With Diego’s help, she dropped the bakery boxes onto the long dining table and poured herself a glass of water, willing her pulse to slow.

She was still trying to gather her composure when a sleek black town car pulled into the gravel drive.

The mayor was early.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath.

Mayor Hartwell stepped out, taking in the scene—the trucks, camera crew, and tangle of cables—with an expression that hovered between intrigue and disapproval. His neatly pressed suit looked absurdly crisp against the surrounding chaos.

“Ms. York,” he said, shaking her hand with polite firmness. “So, the rumors were true.”

Amy offered a thin smile. “Depends on which ones you mean, Mayor.”

He nodded toward Mason’s setup in the window. “Ghost hunters, with their television show. Looks like we’re getting some national attention, and not the kind we would want. It’s a lot for a quiet town in the middle of tourist season. Business owners are nervous. And when my constituents are nervous, they tend to call me.”

Amy braced herself, swallowing deeply. “I can assure you, this isn’t meant to disrupt anything.”

Hartwell folded his arms, his expression cool. “That’s what I want to believe, Ms. York. The benefits versus the burdens of what you’re up to out here. The board wants assurance before we approve your grant. Public relations matter in a town this size. If this… spectacle… drives visitors away or gives the island a reputation it doesn’t want, it’s a problem.”

Her heart raced. “Mayor Hartwell, I understand your concern.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You seem determined; I’ll give you that.” His gaze swept toward the entry hall. “It’s coming along nicely. Some beautiful work has been done here. Just make sure your determination doesn’t turn this restoration into a circus.”

And with that, he offered a polite nod and headed back toward his car, the gravel crunching like bone beneath his shoes.

Amy stood still in the doorway long after he’d gone, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. The rest of the island’s business owners had a right to be concerned.

She was, too.

The house felt too quiet after the mayor left. Not the comforting kind of quiet, either. It was the restless, humming sort that made Amy wish for the of relentless grinding of saws and pounding of hammers again. Evidence that the construction crew’s assignments had moved into more refined finish work.

She retreated to her office, dropped into the chair, and closed her eyes for a moment. The air smelled faintly of donuts and coffee. On her desk, the town grant paperwork sat neatly in its binder, as though pretending everything was perfectly under control.

A soft knock broke the silence.

“Amy? Can I bother you a moment?”

Mason’s voice.

She sat up a little straighter. “Come in.”

He pushed the door open, leaning against the frame like he owned the room. His grin was half sheepish, half irresistible TV-host charm—the sort that probably melted millions of viewers, but just made Amy reflexively put her guard up.