"You built this place like a tomb."
Olivia's voice was low, slicing through the stale air of the basement as they moved through the underbelly of the second brownstone—an address Ethan recognized too quickly.
He didn't respond. Just kept walking, jaw clenched, eyes scanning beams and brackets like they were evidence in a language only he could read.
"You're unusually quiet," she added.
"Because I'm trying not to lose my temper."
She gave a short laugh behind him. "Try harder."
They had driven there together in silence, headlights cutting through the rain. Rachel was rerouting Deeks away from the location in the video. No casualties—for now. But whoever was behind this knew Olivia's number. Knew how to strike nerves. And knew Ethan's buildings like intimate lovers.
Ethan paused beneath a crossbeam and pressed his fingers to the grain. "This house was one of my father's final designs," he murmured. "He never finished it. City pulled the permits after the Cambridge collapse."
"So what's it doing back on record?"
"I don't know."
She folded her arms. "You keep saying that."
"Because I don't have answers for everything you want to hear, Dr. Harper."
Olivia stepped closer, expression sharp. "Then let's stop pretending this is just about the case."
Ethan looked at her, rainwater still beading on the collar of his coat. "What is it about, then?"
"You," she said. "You show up after years of silence, your signature's on every doomed design, and now someone's killing people inside blueprints you buried. You want to tell me that's all coincidence?"
"I didn't build these graves," he snapped.
"But someone's using your hands to dig them."
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of water dripping off exposed pipes. Then Ethan turned away and said quietly, "Do you believe I'm the killer?"
She studied him. The furrow in his brow. The exhaustion in his voice. The careful way he didn't ask if she trusted him—just if she thought he could murder.
"No," she admitted, voice softer than she wanted it to be. "But I believe you're hiding something. And people are dying because of it."
Ethan's breath hitched, then he turned and walked toward the furnace room. "Come on. There's something I want you to see."
---
The room was small, square, lit only by a portable bulb dangling from a hook. On the far wall hung a full-scale sketch pinned across drywall—aged paper, crisp ink, and a single red line curved through the center like a fault in the earth.
Olivia stepped closer. "This wasn't in city records."
"It wouldn't be," Ethan replied. "This is the first draft of the Caldwell Memorial Institute."
She glanced at him. "The one that collapsed?"
He nodded. "But this version never left my father's desk. He marked it in red as too ambitious—a personal warning. We buried it after the hearing. Burned the final copy."
"Then how is it here?"
"I don't know." His hands flexed at his sides. "But the signature in the corner—it's not mine. Look closer."
She did.
There, in the bottom right, was a barely legible imprint in pencil:
N. Caldwell.
"Your father," she whispered.
"He's been dead fifteen years."
She stepped back, mind spinning. "Unless he's not."
Ethan met her gaze. "He is."
"But someone wants you to think otherwise."
Before he could respond, Olivia's phone buzzed again. Another message. This time, a voice note.
She played it on speaker.
The recording crackled. Then a distorted voice filled the space, hollow and deep:
> "They never asked why the beams broke.
They only blamed the builder.
The architect always pays the price."
Click.
Silence.
Ethan stared at the phone. "That's my father's phrasing. Word for word."
Olivia's pulse pounded. "So someone is quoting him. Or someone who knew him well."
"Or someone who wants me to revisit his sins."
She looked at the blueprint again. "This—this isn't just a murder series. It's personal. It's a message."
Ethan nodded slowly. "A retribution."
She turned back to him, a hundred questions burning behind her eyes. But what startled her more than the blueprint, more than the voice note… was the flicker of fear in Ethan's gaze.
Not fear of the killer.
Fear of himself.
---
They left the brownstone an hour later, and Olivia offered him a ride. Ethan hesitated for a moment before slipping into the passenger seat.
The rain had softened into mist. Streetlights smeared golden streaks across the windshield.
"You think I'm broken, don't you?" Ethan asked suddenly.
She didn't look at him. "I think you're brilliant. And stubborn. And damaged."
A pause.
"Same as me."
Another silence passed between them—one too full to be ignored.
Then Olivia added, "But if you keep shielding me from the truth, you'll end up building your own grave."
Ethan turned his face to the window. "Maybe that's the point."
In the dark, behind them, the brownstone's second-floor window lit up.
Someone was still inside.
Watching.
Listening.
And the blueprint left behind? Gone.