Ethan sat hunched over his drafting table long after midnight, a circle of lamp light illuminating the scattered plans and tool schematics before him. He adjusted the small LED headlamp on his brow, the glow sweeping across snapped photographs of floor joists and close-ups of gouged molding. Every detail pointed to the saboteur's next target. All that remained was proof, and Ethan was determined to find it tonight.
The workshop door creaked open and Olivia stepped in, her dark hair plastered by the rain, eyes bright with resolve. She carried a small satchel slung across one shoulder. Without a word, she crossed the room and set it on the adjoining workbench, its contents rattling softly—flashlight, gloves, notebook, and the brass compass charm tied with its red ribbon.
"Good," Ethan said, straightening. "You're here."
She offered a tight smile. "Had to be. We leave in five."
He nodded, lifting a laminated blueprint of 42 Pine Street. The brownstone's façade looked unchanged, but the hidden corridors—the ones he and Olivia had unearthed in earlier investigations—ran like veins through its core. "I flagged every anomaly. The service hatch near the attic, the displaced beam in the parlor, the hidden panel in the study. Tonight, we confirm."
Olivia unpacked a pair of field-grade binoculars and a compact radio. "Rachel's team will cover the lower floors. We'll take the attic and roofline. I want to see if the sabotaged supports in the joists align with where the last victim fell."
Ethan's fingers trembled slightly as he traced the blueprint's attic hatch. "Agreed." His usual polish felt frayed by anticipation. "After you."
They drove in silence through the wet streets, headlights slicing through mist. Olivia's mind raced with procedural checklists even as her heart hammered at the closeness beside her. Ethan's presence always stirred something taut and unpredictable in her chest—a reminder that investigation and desire had become inseparable.
At 42 Pine, yellow police tape flapped in the wind and uniformed officers held the perimeter. Detective Rachel Kim waved them forward. She was tense—her dark hair in a loose bun, trench coat buttoned against the cold.
"Attic entrance is here," Rachel said, pointing to a tall ladder propped against a rear wall of the brownstone. "It leads up through a maintenance hatch. I've stationed two officers at the bottom. They'll cover the stairs if anything goes wrong."
Olivia nodded, shouldering her satchel. Ethan climbed the ladder first, moving with fluid confidence. She followed, every rung echoing in her ears, until they emerged into a cramped attic of exposed beams and rafters, the only light the weak crescent moon filtering through grime-smeared dormer windows.
Ethan clicked on his headlamp. Olivia did the same—two cones of light piercing the darkness. The attic smelled faintly of dust and old insulation. She scanned the joists, comparing them to the blueprint sprawled open on her notebook. "Here," she murmured, crouching beside a beam. A fine hairline crack ran along its length, one side slightly raised. "The last victim must have fallen through here."
He knelt beside her, breath warm on her neck. She felt the quick flash of his heart against her spine. "Sapling-oak supports," he said, voice low. He reached into his jacket and produced a small mallet and chisel. With practiced precision, he tapped a tiny nail head buried in the wood. "This was reinforced after the first incident—I replaced the old oak with laminated beams."
Olivia exhaled. "So this crack is new." She tapped the beam with her fingertips; it vibrated with a hollow note. "Someone weakened the splice we installed."
Ethan rose and moved toward a far corner where a loose floorboard protruded. He pried it gently with a flat bar. Beneath lay a shallow cavity—dark, dust-coated, large enough to hide a hand or a small device. "They used this hatch to access the attic unseen," he said, holding back a frown. "It leads to the service corridor we documented."
Olivia leaned in, her flashlight catching scribbled numbers on the underside of the floorboard. "An estimate of load capacity," she read aloud. "Minus twenty percent." Her pulse quickened. "They calculated exactly how much force to apply before collapse."
Footsteps on the corrugated metal roof above made them freeze. Rain tapped against the slate shingles like nervous drums. Ethan pressed a finger to his lips. Olivia's breath hitched as she lifted her binoculars and scanned the rooftop line. A shadow moved near the chimney—someone in a dark hood, shifting tools in one hand.
Without a word, Olivia clipped her radio microphone to her lapel. "Rachel—this is Harper. Suspect on the roof. North side, by the chimney. Twenty-five yards out."
"Copy," came the crackled reply. "Teams moving in."
Ethan grabbed her arm, his voice a whisper. "Stay low." He led her toward the small padded platform under the dormer window. They pressed their backs to the slanted wall, watching the silhouette turn and crouch. Olivia studied the figure's posture—its deliberate, methodical movements matched the saboteur's precision. She caught a glint of metal. A crowbar or pry tool.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the hooded figure in stark relief, and in the blink that followed, it vanished—slipping down across the ridge toward the rear courtyard.
Olivia hopped from the platform and slipped through the attic entrance, Ethan just behind. They raced down the service corridor, each step echoing off brick walls. As they emerged into a side room, two officers blocked the stairwell. "We lost sight," one murmured. "Must've ducked inside."
Olivia and Ethan darted past them, down the main staircase, through the parlor. Olivia's throat constricted as she saw where the chandelier had been loosened—the metal chain hung askew, the socket pulled halfway from the ceiling.
Ethan's jaw clenched. "They planned to drop that on anyone below." He crouched, running a hand along the marble mantel, turning to Olivia. "This level is unstable too."
Her breath caught at the thought of innocent victims strolling beneath that chandelier. She raised her radio. "Rachel—reinforce the parlor. We've got explosive collapse risk. Someone's armed and dangerous."
As they crossed into the foyer, Olivia suddenly halted at the entryway table. Scattered across its surface were fragments of stained glass from a broken transom, and amid them lay a single red ribbon—torn and dust-smudged. She knelt, cradling it between gloved fingers. "They left this behind on purpose."
Ethan crouched beside her, voice hushed. "A signature or a taunt."
Olivia bit her lip. "Both." She rose, smoothing her hair. "We need to flush them out. I'm going upstairs again—through the main stairwell this time."
He stared at her, concern flashing in his pale-gray eyes. "That's the most exposed route."
She met his gaze, steady. "And where they expect us to be safe."
Ethan nodded once, the weight of her determination mirrored in his posture. "I'll follow."
They ascended together, officers forming a perimeter at each landing. The hush of the house was broken only by the distant hum of radios and the drip of rainwater escaping gutter channels. On the second floor, Ethan paused at a door he'd previously catalogued as a linen closet.
"Watch," he murmured, sliding the lock with his locksmith's pick. He eased the door open to reveal darkness, save for a sliver of light leaking from under the next door—a corridor leading to the master suite.
Olivia clicked on her flashlight and stepped inside. They pressed themselves against the wall, inching forward. The faint scent of lavender and old paper drifted from beneath the master bedroom door.
She lifted her hand. "Ready."
Ethan nodded, his hand hovering near the holster of his field knife. They kicked the door inward together, sweeping the beam of their flashlights across the lavish suite: four-poster bed draped in silk, French doors leadling to a small balcony, and at the far corner, an armoire half-open.
Olivia's heart pounded as she swept the light over the room. Nothing moved. Yet the ache in her gut told her the saboteur was here—watching.
Ethan stepped forward, checking the bed skirt's hem. "No tripwires." He exhaled. "They know this floor is too obvious."
Olivia approached the armoire, its carved doors swinging on squeaking hinges. She shone her light inside: folded linens, evening gowns, and at the back, a stack of old floor plans bound by a crimson ribbon. She lifted them out, revealing the familiar compass emblem stamped in red ink on every cover.
She met Ethan's eyes. "They're cataloguing every floor plan they manipulate."
He took the stack from her, flipping through. "Look at this one." He paused at a detailed section for the parlor ceiling. Someone had penciled an "X" and written beneath it: "Compromise support – roof fracture."
Olivia's breath caught. "It's a blueprint for disaster."
They heard a click—a floorboard somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Both froze, flashlights swinging to the corridor. The door's old brass knob began to turn slowly.
Ethan's hand closed over Olivia's wrist. "Go." He urged her toward the balcony, pulling her behind him. She followed, adrenalin surging as they stumbled through the balcony doors into a narrow ledge.
Rain pelted their backs as they hugged the stone balustrade, peering down at the courtyard twenty feet below. The distant glow of police flashlights flickered across wet cobblestones. Olivia unhooked the compass ribbon from her coat pocket and pressed it into Ethan's palm. "In case this ends badly."
He paused, gaze softening. Then, with a hard nod, he led her to the corner and lowered himself over the edge. She followed, knees scraping stone, heart hammering as she dropped three floors in a single bound. They landed in a crouch amid a tangle of hydrangea bushes.
Officers shouted from above. Olivia scrambled to her feet, racing toward the wrought-iron gates. Ethan was at her side in an instant, guiding her through the locked latch.
They burst into the rain-slick street as a hulking figure in a dark overcoat emerged from the shadows of a side alley, crowbar in hand.
Without hesitating, Olivia grabbed the brim of Ethan's collar and dragged him behind a parked delivery van. The stranger's polished leather shoes clicked on the pavement as he advanced, the crowbar gleaming.
Olivia's breath came in gasps. She pulled her radio free. "All units—suspect in sight! Over by Elm and Pine!"
Ethan pressed a hand to her back. "Stay low." His voice was steady, tethering her to the moment.
The stranger halted at the end of the alley, head cocked. A flare of headlights revealed his face—sharp features obscured by shadows. He raised the crowbar as if about to strike.
Olivia braced against the van's cool metal. Her gaze flicked to Ethan, whose jaw was set, knuckles white around the crown of his knife.
Police sirens wailed closer, echoing off brick walls. The stranger hesitated, then dropped the crowbar with a clatter and melted back into the darkness.
Silence fell, broken only by dripping water and retreating footsteps.
Olivia exhaled, knees trembling. Ethan moved beside her, offering a steadying arm. She took it, pressing close as the rain sluiced off their coats.
He folded the ribboned compass into her palm. "We got a glimpse," he murmured. "That's progress."
She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, exhaustion and relief mingling in the rain. "Yes," she whispered. "And now we know how dangerous this really is."
He held her in the downpour, the compass warm against her skin. Above them, a lone streetlamp flickered, casting their intertwined shadows across the wet cobblestones—two figures bound by secrets, standing watch against the darkness.