Page 69 of Widow’s Walk

Amy’s voice came next. She sounded calm, clear, steady while narrating the story. He knew she wasn’t, though, and it made him smile. To anyone else, it looked like prime-time drama. To him, it looked like foolishness. Grown men running around in the dark with flashlights.

Halfway through, he shut the TV off.

The house felt too still after that. He lay in bed a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Amy, thinking about what his father might want to say. Neither thought made sleep come easy.

He met his father the next morning at the small café near the harbor—the same spot they’d used for early meetings since Sully was twenty. The smell of roasted beans and damp salt air clung to everything.

His father was already there, with two coffees waiting. He looked up from the newspaper with that inscrutable half-smile that could mean pride or disappointment, usually the latter.

“Sully,” he said. “Morning.”

“Morning, Dad.”

They talked weather, ferry schedules, material shipments—the usual warm-up chatter. But Sully could see the real topic folded behind his father’s eyes.

Finally, his father took a slow sip and said, “I watched that show last night.”

Sully forced a thin smile. “Did you catch the whole thing?”

“Enough.” A pause. “Mansion looked good. Your fine work showed through. It’s a solid structure—beautiful lines. But I worry about what you’re tying our name to.”

“There it is,” Sully muttered.

His father frowned. “You can joke, but this matters. We build homes for real people—renovations, families, trust. The Sullivan name stands for quality, not for whatever that was on TV.”

“It’s exposure,” Sully said. “People will see the craftsmanship. It’s good for—”

“It’s a circus,” his father interrupted, lowering his voice. “A haunted house. You think new clients want their kitchens built by the man who resurrected the murder mansion?”

Sully rubbed his jaw, heat climbing his neck. “It’s not like that. Amy’s turning it into a wellness retreat. It’s bigger than the gimmick of that show.”

His father gave him a long, level look. “You’ve got talent. I’m just afraid you’re ruining yourself and the company by association.”

Sully swallowed the words he wanted to throw back. He looked out the café window instead, to the gray gleam of the sea beyond the docks.

“I’m not walking away from the job. We’re nearly finished anyway,” he said.

His father nodded slowly but didn’t answer.

They finished their coffee mostly in silence. When they parted, Sully’s chest felt leaden—not from worry about the company or the show, but from his father’s unshakable disapproval.

By sunrise, the island was already buzzing. Dead Reckoning: The Blackwell Mansion had aired last night, and the online chatter hadn’t stopped since. Amy had caught only pieces of it—it had aired late—but she had seen the footage prior. The mansion looked beautiful on screen. Mason’s crew had made it haunting yet noble.

And it was all hers.

She had spent a restless night alone, her stomach in knots since dawn.

When the knock came on her office door, she was half expecting Mason—maybe even Kaitlin. Instead, the mayor stood there in his crisp suit, damp windbreaker, and an expression that looked carved from granite.

“Amy,” he said, lingering on the threshold. “Do you have a few minutes?”

Her heart sank at his tone. “Of course. Come in, have a seat.”

He didn’t sit. “I’ll be direct. The council met this morning. The town will not be providing additional funding for the renovations.”

“What?” The word came out small, choked. “We had a preliminary agreement. The heritage grant—”

“That was before your television show turned the property into a ghost story.” He finally sat in the offered chair, voice softening only slightly. “The board doesn’t want the island associated with this sensationalism. It doesn’t align with our goals for the island’s future, nor, if I can be honest, does it honor its past.”