Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of a Ghost
The file Marcus delivered was thin—thinner than Vincent’s patience for bureaucracy. It was a digital archive, condensed into a sleek tablet. As Vincent sat in the back of his darkened town car, the rain drumming against the roof, he flipped through the autopsy report of one Elena Vance, the woman who had died in apartment 309.
The cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest, a result of chronic heart failure. No foul play. No evidence of a struggle. Yet, there was an addendum in the margins, a note from a skeptical coroner: Subject was found with fingernails torn, as if attempting to claw through the bathroom tiles.
Vincent looked at the blueprints of Harbor View, Building C. Apartment 309 sat directly against the elevator shaft. If the pipes were faulty, the acoustics could be deceptive. But pipes didn't knock in Morse code.
"She was a retired archivist," Vincent muttered, reading her history. "Lived alone. No family. But look at these calls, Marcus."
Marcus leaned over, pointing to the log of outgoing calls from the apartment in the week leading up to her death. Every single call was to the same number: the city’s zoning commission. They were registered as complaints regarding "unauthorized subterranean vibrations."
"Vibrations?" Vincent frowned. "The demolition is scheduled for next week. If the site is being prepped, there shouldn't be any drilling yet."
"I sent a scout team over there an hour ago," Marcus said, his voice unusually strained. "They haven't reported back. I’m starting to think this isn't about ghosts, Vincent. It’s about what’s underneath the building."
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Vincent’s mind flashed to Ellie’s red velvet pouch. Four dollars and twenty-five cents. The innocence of her terror was the most dangerous thing he had encountered in years. He felt a rare, prickling sensation of unease—a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was a street kid in West Baltimore.
"We aren't waiting for the morning," Vincent said. "Get the master key and a tactical crew. If there’s something scratching in those walls, I want to know who—or what—is paying the rent."
