“Deal,” Aimee says. Adam and Ted agree reluctantly. I nod my consent in time with a bolt of lightning flashing through the sky. On the mark of the rumble of thunder, the five of us begin the slog through the wet grass to the main house.
“Not so fast,” Rini yells. She’s put a hoodie on over the mess Adam splattered on her. “You’re not coming back inside my house until I get what I need from you.”
RINI
This moment is not what I expected. What started as a defense of my sister has become personal. Adam and Aimee have attacked my character, my business, my studies and skill.
“I did have ulterior motives in bringing you all here, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fraud. I’ve been studying astrology since I was fourteen years old, and every reading I shared came directly from your charts. For one of you, and only one of you, I chose my narrative with an agenda.”
“Which one?” Aimee asks.
“Adam. Adam is the only one who I’d known had hurt my sister before you showed up. I had no idea that you had a role in the way it played out, Aimee. I figured that out hours after your reading. You added to her trauma.”
“I’m sorry,” Aimee says.
“What do you want, Rini?” Margot asks.
Margot is leading me exactly where I wanted to go. But one piece of this picture is still missing. “I want Adam to pay for what he’s done,” I say.
“What did I do to your sister anyway? Or what do you think I did?” Adam asks.
I stutter here, because I don’t know the full extent. But I know enough. That she was a teenager. That he was her professor. That he was married, stringing along a much younger girl with hero worship.
“You had an inappropriate relationship with her, just like you did with Eden, which you’re still avoiding taking responsibility for. These aren’t isolated incidents; this is your character. Your actions have consequences. You can’t chase your every whimsical desire and expect everyone to fall in line. You have to pay for what you’ve done.”
My declaration is punctuated not only by a clap of thunder but by the unexpected slam of a metal door. The bulkhead doors of the basement. When a figure appears around the corner, I cannot hide my elation. I was beginning to doubt this confrontation would happen. It’s nothing short of a miracle, my dying wish coming true.
Andi steps into the storm. My sister is outside, in the presence of other people, for the first time in years.
Hiding my sister away in the walls of the house was her idea, not mine. I thought moving away from the city would begin to cure her, like slowly sipping a magic potion. In Greenport, I gladly went out and got jobs to pay for the work, while Andi binged YouTube tutorials. But as the house started to show signs of life, nosy neighbors and enterprising press came knocking at the door. They wanted to know what two young girls were doing with decrepit property. They were aggressive, or worse, underhandedly kind, trying to ingratiate themselves for information. Andi couldn’t take it. She refused to go outside, ever, for any reason.
That ushered in her third nosedive, and for me, the most devastating.
Andi got the idea for a secret room from YouTube, a BBC interview with Anthony Horowitz showing the hidden office where he wrote all his masterpiece novels. I came home from my shift and she showed me the video. It was cool for a workspace, but what Andi was proposing was different. If word got out, she would be a freak. I would be a monster. The story would be front-page news. Andi pleaded. We could build a place for me. To be safe. To be happy.
Still, I wanted to say no. I wanted Andi to feel safe, but I also wanted her to rejoin the world of the living, which meant engaging with society, its roses and its thorns. I was afraid that would never happen if she went so far as to live in a secret apartment in the walls of the house.
I tried to get Eric to say no so I could blame it on him. At that point Eric was the only person in Greenport who had ever seen Andi. There were rumors of two girls living here, but no one could confirm or deny it. Andi made phone calls—never Zooms—and refused to come to the door for vendors, but she trusted Eric, and he never let her down. If Eric noticed that Andi didn’t leave the house—not to join us for dinner, not to go out to bars, not even for a grocery run—he didn’t say anything.
When I shared Andi’s idea with Eric, he was the opposite of judgmental; he was so accepting that he went straight to the practical. He said if he added the modifications to the planning designs, they’d become public record. He wanted to confirm that would negate what he assumed was the whole point—to make sure no one would know Andi was there.
When we understood the risk he was taking by building an unpermitted apartment, I knew he deserved to know the whole story—as much as I knew, at least—starting from our father leaving to the night she dropped out of college, our mother’s intolerance, and Andi’s increasing agoraphobia. In the end, knowing what Andi had been through actually brought her closer to Eric.
“I’ll get them to grant you a certificate of occupancy for the house and the cottage. If you ever sell this place, you’re going to have a lot of problems with that illegal addition,” he’d said.
“I don’t ever want to sell this place,” I said, dreaming of the business on the horizon.
“Not in our lifetimes,” Andi agreed, comforted by her secret spaces.
I thought Andi and I had a shared vision, but we were never truly on the same page. Stars Harbor was a dream come true for both of us, but in two very different ways. This fundamental divide would remain hidden for years. Until I had my death date.
With my fate sealed, I had broken up with Eric, pushed him away to protect him, but I couldn’t do that with Andi. Besides, to say I would be abandoning her in six months when she couldn’t face the world alone felt beyond cruel. So I had to help her without telling her. I directed all my energy into figuring out how to provide for her when I was gone. The first thing I did was create a will. I left everything to her, which was mainly my bank accounts and Stars Harbor.
After meeting with the lawyer, I felt strong knowing the business would legally pass to her upon my death, but that security faded when I considered the logistics. Andi knew astrology as well as I did; I’d taught her well. She did all the intake forms for new guests; she helped me generate charts and prepare narratives for the readings. Andi could do everything it took to run Stars Harbor behind the scenes. But she could never trust strangers.
Feeling the pressure of time ticking by, I got my answer by watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills when one of the women said, “It’s never too late to say you’re sorry.” She and her sister apologized and hugged it out, not only ending a years-long feud, but also taking care of issues that hadn’t even seemed directly related.
Not willing to place my future in the hands of reality-show editors, I conducted my own research. While no one would call it a cure, there was a lot of support—from Reddit personal anecdotes to articles from psychologists and mental health experts—for the healing power of an apology.
I started myself. Late at night, in the safety of the dark with Andi, I would deliberately reminisce with the intention of making amends for losing my grip. The days I couldn’t bear another minute carrying the burden of a dependent when I’d been abandoned by the parents who were supposed to care for us. I’d felt terrible for the times I had snapped at her for her depression, or tried to shame her into eating when she was severely restricting. I cried when I said I was sorry for those moments of weakness.
Stop beating yourself up for being human. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, she said. A sincere apology and genuine forgiveness. After every late-night sisterly therapy session, I swore I could see a change in Andi.
To continue the healing tour of my final six months, I tried to reach out to our father, but he said he had nothing to apologize for and that Andi’s problems were her own. You turned out well, he said. I hung up on him. I tracked down our mother, but reception was spotty where she was traveling in Marrakech. I raised you both to adulthood. Andi even longer. When you have kids of your own, you’ll appreciate how much I did for both of you, especially as a single mom. Maybe then I’ll get an apology. She hung up on me. No intergenerational apologies were coming.
And that’s when I knew the person who would make the most dramatic difference, and I hatched the plan that could let me die believing Andi was healed, or at least well on her way. A few targeted email blasts and Instagram ads, and the future was in motion.
Andi didn’t know why I thought it was important for us to confront Adam this particular weekend. When I showed her the reservation list, she nodded without hesitation. But as the weekend approached, she refused to come up with a script or a strategy with me. I knew she’d need my help, but she wouldn’t talk about any of it.
I didn’t want to wait until the last possible minute, so I originally floated the idea of Andi appearing during Adam’s reading on Friday night. She balked. When I got scared after the Moon Men event, I wanted to wake everyone up and do it then, before the clock struck midnight. Andi passed on that idea as well. She went radio silent. Given that we’ve all been trapped in the house, I couldn’t coordinate with her for an alternate plan.
But as she reveals herself in the storm—with emotions already heated, confidences betrayed, loyalties tested—I see that Andi had her own agenda, and it could not be more perfect. It’s the exact right moment.
Lightning flashes, illuminating Andi, her face drawn tight.
“Oh, holy hell, this house really was haunting me,” Aimee says.
“Who is that?” Margot asks.
