Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Blake’s living room had been transformed into something that looked like a detective show set.
Cork boards lined one wall, covered with photographs, newspaper clippings, and hand-drawn maps connected by Penny’s red string, creating a web of relationships and timeline connections.
The glass coffee table was buried under stacks of photocopied documents, architectural plans, and mine and Penny’s notebooks, filled with four weeks of research.
Four weeks. Twenty-eight days since Dominic’s arrest, and my body was still in the throes of insurgency.
I pressed my hand to my stomach as another wave of nausea rolled through me.
This morning had been the worst yet. I’d barely made it to Blake’s pristine guest bathroom before my body rejected what little I’d managed to eat for breakfast. The bond separation symptoms should have been getting better by now, not worse.
“Explain the color system,” Blake said, studying our handiwork with the kind of intense focus he probably usually reserved for corporate mergers.
I approached the largest board, grateful for the distraction from my churning stomach.
“Red marks show locations where someone stole property records, architectural plans, and financial documents. These thefts follow a clear pattern—systematic intelligence gathering for development purposes, at least I think so.”
Penny bounced up from where he’d been organizing papers, his scent bright with excitement despite the serious subject matter. “I color-coded everything by date and type of document stolen. See how the red thefts cluster around properties with development potential?”
“So the vandalism wasn’t random,” Jake added quietly from his position by the windows. Over the past few weeks, he’d surprised us all by emerging from his shell like a butterfly from its chrysalis—one of the few bright spots since Dominic’s arrest and Blake’s loss to Adelaide last week.
According to Blake, the results had been predictable. Adelaide Fairfax won with 62% of the vote. Despite everything, Blake had managed a respectable but distant second.
“Hard to run an effective campaign from federal courthouse hallways,” he’d said with that cavalier grin. “My supporters understand, but understanding doesn't win elections.”
“Not random at all. Look at the blue circles.” I traced a different pattern on the map with my finger, pausing as another wave of queasiness hit me. The symptoms were definitely getting worse instead of better, which didn’t make sense if this was just bond separation.
“These represent a completely different type of theft,” I continued, trying to ignore the nausea.
“The Historical Society’s personal archives, old patient records from when the original hospital closed after the new one broke ground, even some family documents that Mrs. Henderson donated years ago.
Whoever hit these locations knew exactly where to find materials related to the early 1970s. ”
“The question is are they looking for something, or trying to hide something?” Blake mused quietly. “It looks like we’re dealing with different agendas. The red pattern suggests someone’s working for development interests. But the blue pattern…”
“Someone with intimate knowledge of something that happened in the 1970s,” I said. “Someone who knew exactly which records they wanted.”
I moved to the timeline we’d created along the far wall, where Penny had used his organizational skills to map out every theft by date and time.
“They took everything from early 1972 through late 1973,” I explained, pointing to the cluster of incidents.
“But they left everything prior to 1971 and everything after 1974.”
“That’s a very specific window,” Blake observed. “Eighteen months of records, precisely.”
Penny tapped his chin with a manicured finger. Pink and white polish alternated across his nails, the embedded glitter catching the light with each thoughtful tap. “What happened in that period that someone would want to erase?”
“Construction on the new hospital broke ground,” I said, pulling out the photocopied newspaper article I’d found at the library.
“The preservation guidelines were established, several buildings in the District underwent preservation restorations. And Thomas Wong, the architect behind all of it, disappeared.”
Jake set down his mug with a soft clink against Blake’s marble coffee table. “Can I see the complete list of what was taken?”
I handed him a copy of the inventory we’d compiled from police reports and Adelaide’s victim statement. Jake’s eyes moved down the list.
“Property deeds, boundary surveys, architectural plans,” he murmured, more to himself than to us.
“But also correspondence files, personal papers, and…” His voice trailed off as he reached the bottom of the list. “Financial records. They took bank records from the Millcrest First National branch office.”
“Is that significant?” I asked, though the tension in Jake’s shoulders suggested it was.
Jake looked up, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes that reminded me he’d seen things the rest of us had only heard about in crime movies.
“In Boston, I remember overhearing conversations about cleaning house—they always seemed focused on financial records first. Bank statements, loan documents, transfer records.
I didn't understand it all at the time, but...”
Blake’s expression grew sharper. “You think someone was laundering money through development projects in the 1970s?”
"Maybe?" Jake said hesitantly. "I mean, I heard them talking about development companies and city contracts, inflating costs for things that didn't seem real. It makes sense it’d work the same way then, right?”
“It does.” Blake nodded. “Set up a legitimate development company, get city contracts for preservation work, then inflate costs or create phantom expenses to move dirty money through the books. If Thomas Wong was the architect overseeing those projects…”
“He would have seen the financial irregularities,” I finished. “He would have known if someone was using preservation work to launder criminal funds.”
“Which could explain his sudden disappearance,” Penny added.
Another wave of nausea hit me, stronger than before, and I had to grip the back of Blake’s fancy leather sofa to steady myself.
Penny perched on the arm of the sofa’s matching armchair, his usual cheerful demeanor tempered by the worried glances he kept shooting in my direction. “The question is whether our two thieves know about each other?”
“I don’t think they do,” I said, thinking back to the patterns we’d mapped.
Blake pulled out his tablet and began taking notes with the efficiency of someone used to analyzing complex scenarios.
“So we have Brian Collins double-crossing us to work for the Antonelli family. And we have someone else—someone with intimate knowledge of district history—systematically stealing what… evidence of criminal activities from the 1970s?”
Before I could respond, Blake’s intercom buzzed. His assistant’s voice came through with professional calm: “Mr. Harrington, there’s a delivery for Mr. Sterling-Hart. The courier says it’s urgent.”
My blood chilled. I hadn’t ordered anything, and the timing felt ominous given recent events. Blake and I exchanged glances that conveyed the same thought: after two weeks of looking over our shoulders, unexpected deliveries were never good news.
“I didn’t order anything,” I said, my omega instincts immediately shifting into alert mode.
Blake approached the intercom with the caution of someone who’d learned to be suspicious of unexpected situations. “What kind of delivery?”
“Manila envelope, sir. No return address. The courier said it was specifically requested to be delivered to Mr. Sterling-Hart personally.”
She continued, her voice crackling through the intercom. “He had proper corporate delivery credentials from a legitimate courier service, sir. The package was pre-screened through our usual security protocols. The sender used a registered business account.”
My stomach dropped. Someone knew exactly where Blake’s secure location was and had managed to get a package past building security designed to keep unwanted visitors out.
“Don’t accept it,” Jake said immediately. “Packages without return addresses are never good news.”
But Blake was already shaking his head, his sharp mind working through the implications. “If they wanted to hurt us, they wouldn’t announce themselves with a delivery. This is a message.”
He returned to the intercom. “Bring it up.”
The next five minutes felt like hours. I found myself pacing the floor, my body responding to the stress with increased heart rate and the kind of restless energy that demanded action.
The mating mark on my neck throbbed with anxiety, and I pressed my fingers against it, wishing desperately that I could feel Dominic’s reassuring presence through the bond.
Penny moved closer to me, his sweet scent deliberately calming despite his own obvious concern. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it,” he said quietly, his eyes studying my face with the kind of keen perception that missed nothing. I stopped my pacing to let him place a steadying hand on my arm.
When the elevator chimed and Blake’s assistant appeared with a security guard, I felt my stomach clench tighter.
The guard was a professional alpha who looked like he could bench press a small car.
His presence was reassuring—a reminder that we weren’t completely defenseless despite feeling exposed.
“Security wants to scan it first,” the guard said, holding a portable device that looked like something from an airport. “Standard protocol for unusual deliveries.”