Olivia Harper's fingers trembled around the file as she strode through the grand archway of 58 Chestnut Street. The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like restless spirits in the stale air. She didn't pause to absorb the ornate moldings or the polished hardwood floors—that could come later. Right now, her pulse pounded in her ears, matching the lazy drip-drip of a broken faucet somewhere down the corridor.
"Dr. Harper," Detective Rachel Kim said, stepping into view. Her tone was clipped, professional, but the dark circles beneath her eyes told a different story. "Victim's ID confirms it. Third 'accidental' death in six weeks, all within Beacon Hill brownstones."
Olivia nodded, flipping open her notebook. "Explain the scene."
They passed a pair of uniformed officers stationed at the door to the parlor. Olivia caught her reflection in the glass: tailored blazer, dark jeans, sensible boots. Everything about her appearance proclaimed efficiency, control. Inside, control was exactly what had slipped away.
The parlor looked unchanged from its last grand party—velvet drapes framing a marble fireplace, a grand piano in the corner, family portraits above the mantel. Yet the lifeless form on the floor made every opulent detail feel uncanny. The victim, a woman in a crimson dress, lay twisted at the foot of the piano bench, her head at an impossible angle.
"Supposed to be rehearsing for a recital," Rachel murmured. "Found her like this at sunrise." She stepped back, allowing Olivia to step forward.
The victim's pulse was already gone. Olivia crouched, examining the neck. No external bruising. No sign of struggle. She reached for the victim's hand—cold as marble—and let her fingertips trace a faint ridge along the wrist where a bracelet had once been. The charm lay nearby: a tiny brass blueprint compass.
Olivia straightened and surveyed the piano bench. On its polished edge, a single red thread of silk ribbon hung, as though torn from a gift box. She lifted it gingerly, eyes narrowing. Silk ribbon wasn't standard in performance wear.
"Ribbon?" Rachel prompted.
"Not sure yet." Olivia slipped it into an evidence bag. "But someone staged this. Those drapes look undisturbed. The piano's lid was closed last night—how did she fall?" She pressed her pen to her lips. "And why leave a compass charm?"
"Symbolic," Rachel said. "Family motto: 'Guide the lost.'"
Olivia's heart pinched. A cruel irony. She crawled closer to the bench, shining her flashlight along the floorboards. Tiny gouges formed a pattern—like scrape marks made by something dragged. She noted them in her pad. "I want the archival blueprints for this house. Floor joists, beam placements—everything."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "You really think it was structural?"
Olivia met her gaze. "I think someone manipulated this brownstone's blueprint. Not by hammer and nail, but by human design. And I intend to find out how." Her voice was steady, but inside, adrenaline sharpened every sense.
They left the parlor in silence. Outside, a chilly wind rattled the stained-glass transoms. Olivia paused on the landing, absorbing the scent of drying plaster and old wood. She felt eyes on her—roaming over her posture, cataloguing every reaction. She let her expression harden. No one would see her flinch.
In the foyer, Ethan Caldwell stood surveying a folding table covered in maps and architectural renderings. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd run his hand through it several times. Blueprints of the brownstone were spread meticulously before him.
"She wanted me to salvage the original moldings," he said without looking up. His voice was low, measured. "Not that she knew I'd be here at sunrise."
Olivia's gaze flicked to him, measuring. He wore a fitted leather jacket over a simple shirt and jeans—an understated contrast to the building's historic grandeur. His eyes, a pale gray, met hers. Something unreadable passed between them.
"Mr. Caldwell," she said, stepping forward. "I'll need your full cooperation as we reconstruct the cause of death." She laid out her credentials. "Forensic psychologist—"
He nodded, tapping a point on the blueprint. "I'm familiar. But I want to see what you find. This house deserves its story told truthfully."
She hesitated. "Not its story. The truth behind these deaths."
He met her challenge, chin lifted. "Then let's begin."
They examined the rear staircase together, where floorboards creaked on Olivia's weight. She pointed to a slight bow in one plank. "See how it dips here? If someone weakened the support beam above—"
He traced her finger with a fingertip, pausing so close she felt the warmth of his palm. "You might be onto something. That beam is original—over a century old. Only I have the detailed restoration plans to confirm any modification."
Her breath caught. "I'll need them."
"Consider them available," he replied, voice husky. "As long as you promise to keep my methods confidential."
Olivia's pulse leapt. The air between them felt electric. She straightened, sliding the blueprints into her bag. "Confidential."
She didn't look back as she left the house, but she felt his gaze trailing her down the steps. Outside, the streetlamps flickered to life, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Olivia clutched the blueprint packet against her chest, the heavy weight of it echoing in her mind.
On her way to the car, she replayed every detail: the silk ribbon, the gouged floorboards, the compass charm, and most of all, the intensity in Ethan Caldwell's eyes. He was a stranger, but she sensed a hidden depth—one that could unlock the secret blueprint behind three mysterious deaths.
She slid into her car and closed the door. The engine's roar seemed too loud in the stillness. Olivia flipped open her notebook again and scrawled a single word at the top of a fresh page: "Obsession."
Before she could write more, her phone buzzed. A new photo popped up: a close-up of the compass charm, tied by red ribbon to a faded rose. The location tag read: 58 Chestnut Street, Parlor—but the timestamp was one minute in the future.
Her breath caught as the world turned cold around her.