CHAPTER 94
Chapter Title: Private Lift
Kathy
The smoke still hadn’t cleared when we stumbled out of the building. It hung in the air like a ghost, thick and acrid, weaving itself into the fabric of our clothes and the strands of our hair—a faint, bitter shroud that whispered how close we’d come to being charred alive in that penthouse inferno. Reynolds popped the Mustang’s trunk with a sharp, metallic clank and tossed me a towel; it landed in my hands with a damp slap.
“Dry off before you catch pneumonia, Hastings,” he said, scrubbing his own face with another. His soaked shirt clung to him like wet paper, streaked with soot and water, outlining every ridge of muscle beneath. “You look like a drowned alley cat.”
He peeled off his tie, coat, and shirt in one smooth, unhurried motion—like shedding armor. Fabric whispered against skin, the soft scrape of cotton giving way to the raw gleam of muscle beneath. Streetlight spilled across him, gilding the hard lines of his chest, the flex of his shoulders, the trail of dark hair that caught the glow like smoke.
Heat curled low in my stomach, sharp and traitorous. I hadn’t come at Delish, and that restless ache from earlier still thrummed under my skin, pulse for pulse. I tore my gaze away, catching my reflection in the Mustang’s window—wet hair, flushed cheeks, eyes too bright. He was right. I looked like a drenched stray pulled out of a storm.
I snorted, twisting my hair to squeeze out the rain, trying to focus on the rhythmic drip instead of the man beside me. “You’re one to talk,” I muttered. “You smell like burnt espresso and bad decisions.”
He gave a low, gravelly grunt of agreement as he pulled a dry shirt from a duffel in the trunk and shrugged it on. “At least we’re still breathing.”
We stood in the street, wiping down beneath the pulse of blue and red lights. Water slicked the asphalt, turning the reflections of fire trucks and cruisers into restless smears of color. The air buzzed with radios and the hiss of cooling metal. Firefighters rolled their hoses with weary precision, while CSU techs drifted in and out of the building—gloved hands, camera flashes, evidence bags glinting in the light. The rhythm of investigation was setting in, steady and unfeeling, as if the chaos had already been archived.
My hands were still trembling. I hid it by twisting the water from my shirt, watching gray rivulets run down onto the cracked pavement.
Reynolds stood beside me, fully clothed now in a black jacket and white shirt. He lifted his gaze to the narrow, five-story structure looming against the haze. “Garrett said there were tenants above the shop,” he murmured. “I expected noise. People. Something.”
We moved toward the entrance, the air thick with smoke and curiosity. A handful of residents huddled near the yellow tape, their faces pale in the pulsing lights. Some clutched umbrellas; others just stood there, bareheaded in the rain, staring at the wounded building like it might explode all over again.
Reynolds flashed his badge, voice steady but carrying that authority that made people part like water. “Detective Reynolds, Crisfield PD. You folks live here?”
A woman stepped forward, paint smudged on her fingers and the sleeve of her cardigan. “Yes, sir. Second floor, unit 2B. This is my husband, and that’s Mr. and Mrs. Grant from 2C.”
Reynolds arched a brow. “All from the second floor?”
“Yes, sir,” the man beside her said. His voice had the flatness of shock. “Only four units on our level—two A through D. The floors above…” He trailed off, glancing up at the brightly lit windows below Allison's penthouse where smoke still drifted. “Quiet. We sometimes see some youngsters around, but they leave quick when they spot us. Like they don’t belong here.”
Reynolds and I traded a look. The kind of look that didn’t need words.
“So third and fourth floors are…?” I asked.
“We don’t know, honestly,” Mrs. Gant replied, shaking her head. “No noise, no movement. Just… quiet. Always has been.”
Reynolds thanked them softly, dismissing them with a nod before turning back to me. “Second floor’s accounted for. But not the ones above.” His tone sharpened. “Garrett’s lying.”
“Yeah.” My gaze traced the upper stories—the shadows, the warped glass, the single curtain moving slightly in a breeze that didn’t exist. “If the second floor’s full of regular tenants, then whatever’s really happening here is higher up.”
Reynolds followed my gaze, his expression unreadable. “Then let’s find out,” he said finally, voice low but certain. He nodded toward Garrett, who was fumbling with his keys at the door of Lace & Timber. “After we check the shop.”
The front doors of Lace & Timber chimed softly as we stepped inside, the sound almost too delicate for the ruin smoldering just above it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just another boutique run by a woman who adored beautiful things. The air was warm, perfumed with vanilla and bergamot, a comforting lie that wrapped itself around the senses.
Wooden shelves framed the walls, lined with jars of tea leaves, small-batch coffee, and honey so clear it caught the light like amber. Everything was arranged with almost surgical precision—no dust, no disorder. A small refrigerator near the counter hummed quietly, stocked with artisanal cheeses and glass bottles of milk labeled in cursive script. Even the butter looked curated.
I passed a rack of local trinkets—tiny crab figurines, driftwood magnets, postcards declaring Greetings from Crisfield!—before stopping at a freezer filled with vacuum-sealed fish, scallops, and lobsters packed so neatly they might as well have been props. A wine rack glimmered in the corner beside dark chocolate bars wrapped in gold foil.
“Cozy little front for international fraud,” I muttered. My voice felt too loud in the stillness. “Gotta admire the taste.”
Reynolds let out a low grunt that passed for amusement. “Easier to launder when it looks like you sell lavender tea and sincerity.”
“Exactly why it works,” I said, running a gloved finger along the edge of the counter. “People buy authenticity.” My gaze lifted to the ceiling, to the faint vibration in the beams above us—the hum of machinery, steady and hidden. “Even when it’s a lie.”
We moved toward the back, where a narrow staircase climbed into shadow. The walls were paneled in dark oak, polished to a soft gleam, the kind of finish that whispered money. At the top, a small landing waited—a single brass plate on the door catching the light: A. Reed—Proprietor.
Reynolds pushed it open.
The air changed immediately—cooler, stiller, touched by the faint sweetness of sandalwood and paper. Allison’s office looked more like a small apartment than a workspace. A couch. A kitchenette. A sleek desk perfectly aligned with the window overlooking the street below. Everything was arranged with precision—too clean, too careful. No computer. No stray papers. No framed photos or sentimental clutter.
Just the barest fingerprints of a life half-lived: a coat rack hung with an expensive leather jacket, dishes drying in a rack, a half-burned candle that smelled faintly of vanilla and rain.
The couch bore the deep creases of someone who’d slept there more than once. I moved to the closet and opened the doors. Rows of clothes stared back—silks, blazers, jeans, all color-coordinated. Shoes lined in neat pairs. A small drawer left slightly ajar revealed underwear folded like origami.
“She stayed here a lot,” I said quietly.
“Probably more than at her penthouse.”
Reynolds nodded, scanning the space like a crime scene and a confession rolled into one. “Check the bathroom,” he said.
I crossed the room, pushed open the door. White tiles. Chrome fixtures that gleamed like they’d been recently wiped down. Utilitarian, but undeniably lived in. The counter was lined with bottles—shampoo, lotion, face wash, the kind of consistency you only build from routine. Neatly folded towels stacked beside them. I opened the medicine cabinet. Cold pills. Vitamins. Prescription sleep aids. All fresh. All used.
“Not a casual setup,” I murmured. “She stayed here—hid here.”
Reynolds appeared in the doorway, eyes flicking across the room like he was memorizing it. “Yeah,” he said finally. “She didn’t trust the penthouse. This wasn’t just an office.”
We were halfway through documenting when one of the CSU techs’ voices cut through the soft rhythm of shutters and scribbling.
“Detective? You’re gonna want to see this.”
Reynolds turned, crouching beside her flashlight’s beam. “What’ve you got?”
She angled the light beneath the desk lip. “There’s a button here. Flush-mounted. Looks built in.”
Reynolds’s eyes narrowed. “A panic button?”
“Could be. Could be worse.”
A heavy silence stretched between us. Neither of us said it, but the word explosion lingered in the air like a ghost that hadn’t moved on.
Reynolds exhaled through his nose, steady but taut. “All right. Everyone out. Treat it like it’s wired.”
The CSU team didn’t need telling twice. They filed out fast, murmuring to one another, the clink of evidence bags and camera straps echoing in the still room.
I stayed by the door, one hand gripping the frame. “You sure about this, Reynolds?”
He gave a thin, humorless smile. “Not remotely.” He knelt, gloved fingers brushing against the desk’s underside. “But we need to know what she was hiding.”
He pressed the button.
For a beat—nothing.
Then came the sound: a deep click, followed by the slow grind of concealed gears. Dust drifted from the wall seams. Wood shifted. And then, with mechanical grace, a section of wall slid open, revealing brushed steel and the faint glint of light.
An elevator. Hidden in plain sight.
Reynolds rose slowly, eyes flicking between the panel and the yawning dark space behind it. “Well,” he said, voice low, “that’s new.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “She built herself a private lift. You don’t go through that kind of trouble unless you’ve got something to hide upstairs.”
Reynolds pressed the call button. The doors whispered open, revealing polished steel walls, their reflections warped like liquid mercury. There were no floor numbers. Just one button—embossed with a single, silent 3.
He looked over his shoulder. “You coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The doors slid shut, sealing us in a humming cocoon of metal and electricity. The elevator jolted once, then began to rise—smooth, steady, relentless. The soft whir of the motor filled the space, syncing with my pulse, each second stretching thinner.
When the doors finally opened, the air that hit us wasn’t the warm, sweet scent of the boutique below. It was colder—clinical—sharp with ozone and printer ink.
Something waited up here. Something alive.