Page 1

Chapter 1

The third time Sully found his tools rearranged into a perfect circle, he stopped blaming his crew and started questioning his sanity. He strode through the mansion’s grand foyer, his work boots leaving dusty prints on the drop cloths that protected the newly refinished hardwood. The air resonated with the distant clatter of construction while hammers and nail guns punctuated his steps. The clipboard in his hand contained yet another problem that needed Amy’s approval, or more likely, her argument.

He checked his watch and grimaced. Already behind schedule, and now this.

His phone buzzed in his pocket for the third time that morning. Three different crew members, all asking variations of the same question: Would there be work tomorrow? And what the hell was going on with their tools?

Sully’s jaw tightened as he read the latest text from Diego, his crew lead: “Found my wire cutters in the third-floor bathroom. Inside the claw-foot tub. Never went up there yesterday. Not funny anymore.”

At first, they’d all blamed each other—practical jokes to keep things light during long workdays. Mike hiding Charlie’s level. Charlie relocating Diego’s toolbox. But the incidents had escalated beyond what could be explained by worksite pranks. Power tools became unplugged mid-use. Hand tools were arranged in perfect circles in rooms where no one had been working. Yesterday, Garrett’s antique hand plane—a family heirloom he never let out of his sight—had somehow migrated from the east wing to the widow’s walk overnight.

Sully silenced his phone with a swipe of his thumb. These weren’t just irritated workers; these were skilled craftsmen getting spooked. Men with families waiting on paychecks, mortgages and grocery bills hanging in the balance. The heaviness of his father’s legacy pressed down on his shoulders with each step toward Amy’s makeshift office.

Sully had chosen construction over art school for exactly this reason—stability, practicality, responsibility. Most days he convinced himself it was worth it. Today, with the east wing foundation revealing unexpected rot, tools mysteriously relocating themselves, and Amy’s unrealistic timeline looming, he wasn’t so sure.

Sully paused at the open doorway to Amy’s office. The mansion breathed with activity, the old walls absorbing the vibrations of sanders and drills as if being slowly awakened from a long slumber. The sharp tang of varnish stung his nostrils. The scent had almost, but not quite, replaced the mustiness that still hung in the air from the untouched rooms. He could feel the layers of time being stripped away, replaced by the newness of fresh paint and polished wood.

Amy’s office was formerly the mansion’s small library, now cluttered with design boards, fabric swatches, and Amy’s eclectic collection of crystals that seemed to multiply every time he entered the room. He could hear the irritating jingle of her bangles as her hands moved, presumably gesturing while she spoke on the phone. Her back was to him, dark hair falling in that messy bun she always wore, somehow both careless and deliberate at once.

After she grew quiet, he waited, shifting his weight and willing her to acknowledge his presence so they could get this over with. When she didn’t, his patience frayed.

“Ms. York?” He stepped through the doorway. She still didn’t respond, so he cleared his throat loudly.

Amy’s shoulders stiffened at the sound. She turned slowly in her chair, and Sully felt a jolt of dismay. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, mascara creating dark shadows beneath eyes that were red-rimmed and swollen. There was no phone in sight—she’d been talking to herself, or worse, crying alone in this dusty room while he’d stood impatiently judging her.

Sully froze, caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to mutter some excuse about coming back later. But her eyes had locked with his now, wide with embarrassment and what looked like desperation. The clipboard in his hand suddenly seemed trivial, but he couldn’t just walk away—not when so many people’s livelihoods, including his own, depended on her pushing forward with this project, bizarre occurrences or not.

He remained rooted to the spot, trapped by circumstance and responsibility, painfully aware that there was nowhere in the mansion he wanted less to be than in this room with a crying woman who held his future in her impractical, crystal-adorned hands.

Amy’s shoulders shook as fresh tears welled in her eyes. Her attempt at composure crumbled, and suddenly she was sobbing openly, each gasping breath punctuated by the jingle of those bohemian bracelets Sully found so irritating.

“I’m sorry,” she managed between sobs. “I just—I can’t—”

Sully took an involuntary step backward, colliding with the door frame. Crying women were definitely not in his wheelhouse. His ex-wife had once accused him of having the emotional range of a particularly stoic hammer. At this moment, he couldn’t exactly argue.

“Ms. York—Amy—maybe I should come back later…” he offered weakly.

“It’s all such a mistake,” she blurted, gesturing wildly at the renovation plans spread across her desk. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought… I thought I could make something beautiful here.” A fresh wave of tears overtook her. “But they found murdered people buried on the grounds, and now there’s a ghost, and who’s going to come to a haunted wellness retreat?”

“A ghost?” Sully repeated, his voice catching in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway where Charlie and Mike were replacing crown molding. This project couldn’t afford another rumour. Sully stepped fully into the office and pulled the door closed behind him with a decisive click.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, dropping his own to just above a whisper. “Please.”

Amy looked up at him with her mascara-streaked cheeks. “What?”

Sully ran a hand over his face, frustration warring with panic. “Most of my guys are islanders. Their families have been here for generations. They’ve grown up hearing stories about this place.” He leaned closer. “If they hear the owner talking about ghosts, I’ll be crew-less by lunchtime.”

This only made Amy cry harder. Her breath came now in hiccupping gasps. “Oh god, I’m ruining everything for everyone.”

“No, no, that’s not”—Sully looked desperately around the room, as if a solution might materialize from the antique woodwork—“Just… can you just…” He made vague calming motions with his hands, which seemed to have absolutely no effect.

Amy picked up her tablet and thrust it toward him. The screen displayed a paused video. “Look! Kaitlin was talking to someone who wasn’t there! The security cameras caught it all!”

Sully reluctantly squinted at the tablet’s frozen image of Kaitlin Matthews, the British historian, who had hung around for weeks digging through moldering records. She stood in front of the main entrance in conversation with an empty patch of air.

“She’s talking to Dr. Whitaker’s ghost,” Amy whispered intensely. “The man who murdered those women. The ones whose remains they found in the garden.”

Sully set the tablet down carefully, as if it might explode. This was rapidly spiraling beyond leaky foundations and delayed shipments of specialized tile. It was way beyond what he was willing to absorb, and it didn’t matter; Sully’s business bank accounts needed him to steer Amy away from whatever wackiness she believed was happening.