Chapter 2: The ribbon and the rift

Olivia never liked working late. It made the shadows feel too familiar.

She sat alone in her Beacon Hill apartment, a half-empty mug of chamomile tea sweating beside her, and stared at the wall of photos taped above her desk. Each image was a snapshot from a different case: crime scenes, floor plans, time stamps, red strings. But this wall—this new wall—was different.

It wasn't just crime. It was design.

The victim, Peter Lamont, had been the third licensed contractor to die in under four months. All involved in historic property restorations. All buildings had ties to Ethan Caldwell's firm. The Department of Buildings called them tragic accidents. Olivia called them patterned precision.

And now, someone was sending her original blueprints—paired with red ribbons, as if mocking her intelligence.

She leaned forward and studied the blueprint from the envelope. The edges were curled with age. But the ink was sharp. Too sharp. This wasn't a copy—it was the original.

And that meant someone had access to Caldwell & Sons' internal archives.

Her phone buzzed.

Rachel Kim, the caller ID read.

Olivia answered. "Talk to me."

"We got a hit," Rachel said, her voice brisk. "Permit office scanned the incoming mail logs for the past two weeks. One envelope addressed to you came from a PO box in Allston. Tracked to a burner. But get this—inside the postal record, there's another name listed as alternate contact."

"Who?"

Rachel hesitated. "Nathaniel Caldwell."

Olivia stiffened. "Ethan's father?"

"Technically deceased. Died in a structural collapse fifteen years ago. But the name's been used to rent that PO box for nearly a year. Same signature on file."

"That's not possible."

"Apparently, it is."

Olivia looked back at the photo wall. There, in the lower corner, was a candid shot of Ethan from earlier that afternoon—standing in the rain, profile sharp, brows pinched in calculation.

"Where's Ethan now?" she asked.

"Home, presumably. Why?"

"I'm going back to that brownstone."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

Rachel sighed. "Harper—"

"I need to know what he's not telling me."

She hung up before Rachel could argue.

---

The brownstone on Chestnut hadn't been cleared yet. Caution tape fluttered at the doorway like a war flag. Olivia pushed past it, flashlight in hand, and stepped into the now-darkened shell of the house.

Something had changed.

The air didn't feel stale. It felt… occupied.

She moved toward the staircase, the one that mirrored her father's unfinished sketch, and paused when her boot tapped something hard on the floor. She knelt and found a bolt—new, clean, silver—sitting directly under the beam that had collapsed.

Fresh hardware.

She swept the flashlight higher and noticed something odd. The crossbeam was no longer fully severed. It had been re-braced… by someone who returned after the scene was vacated.

Which meant someone had been here—tonight.

She spun at the sound of a creak above. Second floor. Not wind. Not wood settling. A human step.

Her breath hitched.

"Who's there?" she called.

No answer.

She drew a slim penlight from her coat—its bottom end fitted with a compact taser, a gift from Rachel after a case went sideways in Vermont—and crept up the stairs, each one whining under her weight.

The second floor was colder. The hallway stretched before her like a throat ready to swallow her whole.

Then—movement.

From the last door on the left, a shadow flickered past the glass. Olivia approached slowly, gripping the penlight like a dagger. She raised her foot to push the door open—

"Harper?"

She spun, nearly jolting the taser into the chest of the man behind her.

Ethan Caldwell stood in the hallway, rain dripping from his collar, hands half-raised.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed, breath short.

"I could ask you the same."

"You followed me."

"I saw your car outside."

She dropped her hand. "You're trespassing."

"So are you."

They stood in silence, thunder rumbling outside.

Ethan's eyes drifted past her toward the room. "You felt it too, didn't you? Something's off."

"They returned," Olivia said quietly. "Someone reinforced the joist. Just enough to cover their tracks."

Ethan's jaw clenched. "Then they're not just watching. They're circling."

She stepped closer. "Tell me the truth. Who had access to those blueprints? Originals. Not digital scans."

Ethan didn't blink. "Only my father and I."

"Your father's dead."

"Yes."

"Then who's using his name?"

He hesitated for a breath too long.

"I don't know."

She didn't believe him.

Before she could press, her phone buzzed again. A message from an unknown number.

STOP DIGGING

OR WATCH ANOTHER ONE FALL.

Attached was a live feed.

It showed a different brownstone. A different joist. A different man—Rachel's partner, Officer Deeks—walking casually under a chandelier that swayed above his head.

Olivia's blood ran cold.

"Where is that?" Ethan asked, reading the panic on her face.

She stared at the screen.

"I think they just named the next building to collapse."