Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2 — The Ghost of Beacon Hill
The museum basement smelled of damp concrete, dry ice, and the ozone scent of failing security systems.
By the time our car screeched to a halt outside the service entrance, four Boston police cruisers were already blocking the alley.
Their blue lights flashed uselessly against the stone walls, painting the rain-slick bricks in frantic, rhythmic pulses.
Drake didn't wait for the officers to clear the corridor.
He strode past the yellow tape, his long coat flared, his jaw set in a hard line that made the young deputy at the door step aside without asking for identification.
I followed close behind him, my boots clicking sharply against the concrete stairs, Jonah trailing us with a heavy flashlight clutched in both hands.
The door to the textile vault was hanging open.
The electronic keypad had not been smashed; it had been dismantled with surgical precision, its wires exposed and neatly snipped.
Inside, the glass display case that housed Rosalind Holloway’s veil remained intact.
The light was still on, illuminating the ivory lace and the gold scars I had stitched into the fabric.
But the veil was no longer alone in the case.
Resting directly on top of the central medallion was a pair of silver sewing shears.
Identical to the ones Marguerite Ashford had used at St. Cecilia’s altar.
"Don't touch them," Drake barked as Jonah stepped forward with his light.
The lead detective, a veteran named Briggs who had known the Holloway family for twenty years, stepped out of the shadows.
"The cameras went dark at 11:14 p.m., Mr. Holloway," Briggs said, adjusting his wet hat.
"A clean loop was fed into the monitor room. By the time the night guard noticed the freeze, whoever did this was gone."
"They didn't steal anything," I observed, stepping closer to the glass, my eyes fixed on the shears.
"The lock on the case wasn't picked. They used a master key."
"There are only three master keys to this facility," Drake said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register.
"One is in the director's safe. One is in my vault at the mansion."
"And the third?" I asked, turning to look at him.
"The third belonged to Gennaro," Drake whispered.
A cold dread pooled in my stomach as the implication settled into the room.
Gennaro Holloway was supposed to be in a federal holding cell in Rhode Island, awaiting trial for international racketeering.
"He didn't escape," Briggs said, anticipating Drake’s question.
"We checked with the marshals ten minutes ago. Gennaro is still in his cell. He hasn't left his bunk since lockdown."
"Then he gave the key to someone else," I said, my fingers finding the edge of my coat.
"Someone who wanted to show us that prison walls don't change the reach of his hands."
I leaned closer to the glass, my eyes narrowing as I noticed something beneath the silver shears.
A tiny scrap of paper was wedged between the blades.
Written on it, in the same elegant black ink from the Beacon Hill auction fragment, was a single time and location.
12:30 a.m. The Vance Library.
I checked my watch.
It was 11:45 p.m.
"We are not going," Jonah said firmly from the doorway. "This is literally the part of the movie where the sensible characters turn around and go to a diner."
"The Vance estate is frozen under federal probate," Drake said, ignoring Jonah completely as he turned to Victoria, who had just entered the room.
"How many men do we have within five blocks of Beacon Hill?"
"Eight," Victoria answered, her tablet already glowing in the dark vault.
"But the street is narrow, Drake. If it's an ambush, we'll be exposed before we hit the front steps."
Drake looked down at me, his gray eyes reflecting the harsh fluorescent light of the basement.
"You stay here with Jonah, Cora."
"No," I said.
"Cora, this isn't a studio dispute. This is a dead man's house."
"The person who left those shears didn't text you, Drake," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering in my ears.
"They left the note under the lace I restored. They used my pattern."
"They are inviting the restorer."
"And if you leave me behind, you're going into that room blind without anyone who knows how to read what's hidden inside the shelves."
Drake stared at me for three long beats, searching my face for the fear he expected to find.
He found only the same stubborn resolve that had carried me down the aisle at St. Cecilia’s.
May you like
"Victoria," Drake said, turning his back to the glass case.
"Get the cars."
