Her palm hovered over the schematic spread on her desk, the edges of the blueprint curling beneath the weight of her gaze. Midnight oil burned in the lamp's pool of light, but she barely noticed the hour. Every line she traced felt familiar yet foreboding—as though the very ink carried a pulse. She ran a fingertip along the outline of the parlor where the first victim fell, then down to the staircase where Ethan had nearly lost her. Alongside each location, she had marked subtle anomalies: a gouged floorboard, a displaced corbel, a hidden service hatch.
She pressed her forehead against the lamp's base, fighting the thrum of fatigue. The compass charm lay at her elbow, still threaded with its ribbon. She remembered Ethan's hand offering it back to her—his sorrowful eyes asking for understanding. She touched the brass compass, its cold surface grounding her.
A soft knock at the door jolted her upright. Marcus Reed slipped inside, eyes bright with anxiety and triumph. "Dr. Harper, you need to see this." He held a tablet glowing with a grid of red dots.
Olivia's heart quickened as she crossed to him. On screen, the map of Beacon Hill blinked with four pinpointed sites—the three known brownstones, plus a fourth she didn't recognize. The coordinates formed a near-perfect diamond.
"What is that fourth location?" Olivia asked, voice low and urgent.
Marcus tapped the tablet. "12 Mercer Street. I cross-referenced Caldwell & Sons' permits—no record there. But an unlicensed renovation was reported last month." He exhaled. "It fits the pattern: compass charm found, structural failure, single 'accidental' fatality."
Olivia's breath caught as she absorbed the implication. Four victims, four sites, one architect with hidden projects and exclusive access. "We have to move now," she said, turning toward the door.
Outside, a chill wind rattled the shutters as she and Marcus hurried to her car. Olivia drove with grim determination, recalling every moment with Ethan in his workshop—his reluctant confessions, his spare apologies. She reminded herself that her duty wasn't to him, but to the lives at stake. Still, she felt the compass charm heavy in her coat pocket, a silent promise of danger and desire.
Mercer Street lay deeper in Beacon Hill's maze, narrow and silent under the moon's pale glow. The brownstone at number 12 was cloaked in scaffolding draped with plastic sheeting. Shadows shifted within, as if the building itself breathed. Olivia parked across the street and slipped from the car, Marcus at her side.
The scaffolding creaked under their weight as they climbed. Through a gap in the plastic, orange floodlights glowed against bare brick. Olivia studied the scene: missing bricks on the third-floor façade, scorch marks around the window frames, and—her stomach clenched—a single strand of red ribbon snapped tight between two exposed laths.
She pointed upward. "There."
Marcus kept watch on the street while Olivia ascended the temporary stairs. Every creak underfoot echoed like a warning. At the third-floor landing, she stepped through a framed doorway into a hollow shell of plaster and dust. The faint scent of mildew clung to the air. Olivia's flashlight caught the far wall, where a section of lath had been pried away. Beyond it lay a triangular cavity lined with wrought-iron brackets—an unauthorized chamber carved into the building's spine.
Her breath faltered. She traced the edges of the opening, noting where fresh mortar sealed the seams. Someone had built a hidden niche here, then concealed it. She knelt, running gloved fingers along the brackets. "This isn't in the official plans," she muttered.
A soft footstep made her spin around. Ethan stood in the doorway, flashlight in hand, his silhouette etched by the floodlights behind him. His expression was a mixture of indignation and concern. "This project wasn't mine," he said immediately, voice echoing in the empty room. "I haven't touched Mercer Street."
Olivia stood, chest tight. "Then who did?"
He stepped closer, boots crunching on loose plaster. "I don't know. But whoever it is, they're precise—and they've studied my work." His jaw clenched. "They're using my methods as a blueprint."
Olivia swallowed, staring at him in the wavering glow. "You keep telling me you're innocent. But everything points back to you."
Ethan's gaze softened. He lifted his hand and touched her arm, gentle as a feather. "Only I know these buildings inside and out. But you're the only one who could piece it together."
Her pulse hammered at his nearness. She fought the sudden rush of attraction, reminding herself of the victims. "Then help me," she said, voice quiet. "We don't have much time."
Together they moved toward the hidden niche. Olivia's breath misted in the cold air as she knelt once more, shining her flashlight deeper into the cavity. A faint glimmer caught her eye—a metal clasp attached to rotten fabric. She reached in and pulled out a small bundle: another compass charm, its ribbon frayed and stained.
Ethan's hand closed around hers on the charm. "They're marking their work," he whispered. His eyes met hers, urgent and fearful. "And they're getting bolder."
Suddenly, a distant groan echoed through the beams above. The floor beneath them trembled. Olivia braced herself against Ethan as a shower of plaster rained from the ceiling.
He guided her back toward the landing as the tremor subsided. Outside, the floodlights flickered in warning. Gloria's soft gasp from below confirmed that Marcus and the officers had witnessed the collapse from the street.
Ethan crouched beside Olivia, pressing a hand to her back. She felt his warmth through layers of coat and shirt. His voice was low, insistent: "We have to warn Detective Kim. Now."
Olivia nodded, her head still spinning from the tremor and the proximity of his concern. Yet beneath it all, a spark of something else glowed—an unspoken recognition that they'd crossed a line together.
As they descended the scaffolding into the night, the red ribbon snapped against the wind, like a heartbeat trailing them through the darkness. And Olivia knew the pattern was clear: they were partners now, bound by secrets and risking everything to unmask the architect of obsession—whoever that might be.
Behind them, Mercer Street's quiet façade stood deceptively still, hiding the next move in a dangerous game neither of them fully understood.Their breaths came in unison as they hurried toward the awaiting cruiser, each step carrying them deeper into a maze of deception—one they would navigate together, come what may.