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“I’m just going to do it,” she said finally. “Then it’ll be over. I’ll take the money, finish the renovations, and move on from this.”
He shook his head, disbelieving. “You can’t be serious… it’s not safe up there for one thing. It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t see another option.”
“There’s always another option,” he shot back. “You don’t throw yourself out onto a storm-soaked roof for a TV stunt because some creep waves cash at you and threatens you with a social media troll people will forget in two weeks.”
“It’s my decision, Sully.”
“It’s a bad one!” His voice came sharper than he intended. “You could get hurt. And you’re willing to let him use you like that?”
Her jaw clenched. “I don’t need your permission.”
“That’s not what I—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair. “Amy, I just—damn it, I care about you, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
For a second, the air between them felt like it might break.
Amy’s eyes softened briefly before she looked away. “You think I want to be part of this? That I’m proud of it? I’m out of options. If I lose the project, the house—it’s over. Maybe this is how I write my own ending, but at least it’s on my own terms, and I’ve done everything I can.”
He wanted to argue, to shake sense into her, but he resisted. Was she saying she was willing to die to avoid failure?
Sully exhaled hard, the anger curdling into helplessness. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I can’t watch you do it.”
She turned away from him, staring out the window where dark clouds rolled closer. “Then don’t.”
A hole was blown in his gut with two words.
He stood there another moment, wanting to find the right thing to say, but none came. So he just nodded once, throat tight, and walked out into the wind.
By the time he reached the truck, the first drops of rain had fallen. He slammed the door harder than he meant to and sat there gripping the wheel until his knuckles went white.
It wasn’t until he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—jaw tight, eyes angry and scared—that he realized who he was really furious with.
Amy had barely slept, drifting between shallow dreams and the relentless drum of rain on the roof. She had awakened once, standing in her living room stunned by the door alarm Garrett had installed. Apparently she had been sleepwalking again, and the alarm had finally worked in keeping her inside. She found it difficult to sleep after that.
By morning, the storm had crawled inland, turning the island gray and restless. Wind hurled itself against the windows of her cottage, and the walls shuddered in reply.
She avoided the mansion all day. Avoided Sully. It was easier than seeing the angry disappointment she knew would be waiting in his eyes.
By late afternoon, the Dead Reckoning vans arrived, splashing through the flooded drive. The crew unloaded equipment in the howling rain—huge lamps, anchors of cable and metal, rainproof camera sleeves. Mason prowled through the chaos like a conductor, barking orders, while his assistant wrangled a handful of production assistants already soaked to the bone.
Amy watched from the foyer, heart pounding. Each flash of lightning illuminated the vast skeleton of the house, every doorway trembled with energy. The storm should have been reason enough to cancel, but Mason wouldn’t hear it.
“It’s the perfect atmosphere,” he had said, grinning, as thunder rolled overhead.
She kept checking her phone for updates from the weather service, scrolling through warnings she already knew by heart—high surf, sustained forty-mile-an-hour winds, gusts up to sixty. Yet every time a surge of uncertainty bloomed, Mason’s promise echoed: This will save everything.
As dusk fell, the storm strengthened. Amy shivered as damp air crawled down the back of her neck. She slipped into the nightgown she wore the night her sleepwalking had been caught on camera. Underneath, a crewman clipped and adjusted the thin, hidden safety harness. She tested the belt, tugged it once. Secure.
Her stomach twisted anyway.
“Positions!” Mason’s voice cut through the gale.
Amy stepped through the doorway onto the widow’s walk. The instant she emerged, the storm struck her full force. Rain lashed her face like needles. The wind roared around the cupola, whipping her hair across her eyes. The railing glimmered with water beneath the glare of the lights. Beyond, the ocean churned—a black, heaving mass punching itself against the cliffs.
“Perfect!” Mason called from below. She barely heard him over the gale. “Now look out toward the horizon—like you’re searching for something!”
Amy did as told, stepping closer to the railing. Her fingers clung to the wet iron balusters that shuddered under each gust. The wood beneath her feet felt spongy. Hold it together, she told herself, blinking against the rain.
