Holly and I exchange a look before heading toward the front of the lodge. Through the windows, I watch the production van pulling up the drive, followed by a glossy black SUV that practically hands out business cards and a media kit.
The crew piles out first—cameras, equipment cases, enough cables to rig a small arena. They move with the terrifying coordination of people who run on caffeine, deadlines, and emotional voids.
Then the SUV door opens.
Tara Greene is smaller than I expected. Petite, with sharp cheekbones and a smile that's two degrees too bright. She's dressed in cream cashmere and cognac boots, looking like she just stepped out of a holiday catalog—the kind of catalog where everyone’s laughing at nothing and clutching artisanal wreaths they definitely don’t have storage space for.
“The Morgan Lodge!” She spreads her arms like she's embracing the whole mountain. “Even more charming than the photos. I can already feel the story here.”
Everett steps forward to meet her, and I watch his shoulders set into that careful posture he gets when he's preparing for battle. Basically, every conversation with his dad that I’ve witnessed since he returned home.
Polite. Controlled. Revealing nothing.
“Ms. Greene. Welcome to Morgan Lodge.”
“Tara, please.” She takes his hand in both of hers,holding it a beat too long. “And you must be Everett. Fourth generation, right? I love that. There's nothing more compelling than legacy.”
Her eyes scan past him, cataloging faces like she's already editing the footage in her head. Roman. Caleb. Nolan. Holly. Chance.
Then they land on me.
Something flickers—interest? Calculation? A producer smelling blood in the water?—then she clicks her charm back into place like a slow-close toilet lid—quiet, controlled, and undeniably plastic.
“And you must be our heritage expert.” She glides over, extending a hand. “Sierra Barrett. I did my research. Your preservation work on the Pemaquid estate was beautiful. Very...” She tilts her head. “...thorough.”
There’s that fucking word again.
“Thank you. And it’s fifth. Everett is the fifth generation lodge owner.” I shake her hand, noting her perfectly manicured grip, the way her eyes flick over me like she’s labeling files in her head.
“Five,” she repeats slowly. “Of course.” Her smile sharpens at the edges. “Anyway, the lodge's history is genuinely remarkable. You know, I've always found that the best stories aren't the ones in the history books. They're the ones people are trying not to tell.”
Tara’s gaze flicks between us with the speed of a hawk spotting movement in tall grass.
A cold spike knifes down my spine. “I'msorry?” I manage.
“Oh, nothing ominous.” She laughs—a practiced tinkle that doesn't reach her eyes. “Just an observation. Families are fascinating. The tensions, the loyalties, the secrets. That's what makes heritage so compelling, isn't it? The weight of what came before.”
She’s probing. Testing fences. She has no idea where the real landmines are—yet.
But the way she's looking at me...
“We should get you settled,” Everett cuts in smoothly. “I'll have someone show your crew to their accommodations. We're on a tight schedule for our launch Friday.”
“Eager to get started. I love that.” Tara pulls a tablet from her bag with the efficiency of a surgeon reaching for a scalpel. “I'll need some time with each of you individually. Just brief interviews—background, your connection to the lodge, that sort of thing.” She glances at her notes. “Sierra, why don't we start with you? Say, thirty minutes? I'd love to hear about your preservation philosophy.”
No. Hard no. Nuclear-grade no. Not without a lawyer, a priest, and possibly an exorcist.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Happy to help.”
Everett’s jaw ticks—small, sharp, easy to miss unless you’ve been memorizing that face since adolescence.
Tara beams. “Perfect. Let's find somewhere quiet. Somewhere with good light.” Her gaze drifts toward the alcove behind me—toward the window seat, the display case, the exposed bones of the wall—and something gleams in her expression.
“Oh, that's interesting. What's happening there?”
“Storm damage,” Everett clips out, all gravel and zero patience.
“Emergency repairs.” She says it like she's tasting the words. “Right before the big event. That's very... cinematic.”
