Still, I found myself wondering how Dr. Malcolm Virelli had gotten my private number.
The house appeared at the top of the rise like it had been placed there rather than built. Sharp angles. Black siding. Walls of glass reflecting nothing but sky, as if it were trying to detach itself from the city below. No signs of life. No indication anyone had ever carried a box across its threshold.
I parked my silver Mercedes AMG coupe along the curb and stepped out, pulling my coat closer as the wind caught it. The leather was warm against my hands, the fur collar brushing my jaw, grounding in its familiarity. I dressed like this for meetings where men tried to measure me before they listened to me. Armor mattered. Presentation mattered.
Up here, though, it felt like I’d dressed for an audience that hadn’t shown up.
The lockbox was exactly where his message said it would be. The code worked. The key turned without resistance.
Inside, the house greeted me with a vast, echoing emptiness that swallowed the sound of my heels. No hum of appliances. No shifting air vents. Just space—wide, deliberate, and uninhabited. It didn’t feel unfinished. It felt paused.
“Hello?” I called, already knowing I wouldn’t get an answer.
My voice carried across polished concrete and disappeared.
I walked further in, letting my fingers skim the wall out of habit. Fresh paint. No marks. No warmth. Whoever owned this place hadn’t lived in it long enough to leave an imprint. Maybe not at all.
That wasn’t unusual for some of my clients. They bought properties the way others bought portfolios. Still, even the mostdetached collectors left something behind—a catalog, a glass, a presence.
Here, there was nothing.
I shifted into work mode anyway. It was second nature. Documentation first. Interpretation later. My phone came up, capturing angles, sightlines, scale. If this was legitimate, the entry could anchor a monumental portrait. Something unapologetic. Something rooted in legacy rather than trend. The stair landing begged for sculpture—weight, tension, interruption of all this clean geometry.
The architecture wanted art. It had been designed for it.
Which made the absence louder.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
Begin upstairs. Primary suite walls are reinforced. Ideal for heavier installations.
I stared at the message.
He hadn’t asked if I’d arrived.
Hadn’t asked what I thought. Just… instructed. A thin thread of unease slid into place.
I hadn’t told him where I was standing. I hadn’t told him I was inside.
I typed back, keeping it neutral.
You have interior cameras?
No reply.
The silence felt different this time. Not absence. Pressure. Like the house itself was holding its breath with me inside it.
I should have walked out then. Told myself the project wasn’t the right fit. Sent a courteous decline and gone back to the life I understood. There were other clients. Real ones. People who answered their phones.
Instead, I looked toward the staircase.
Curiosity has undone smarter people than me.
I climbed.
Halfway up, the air changed.
At first it registered as nothing more than the sterile scent of new construction—drywall dust, adhesives, something industrial and forgettable. But then it thickened. Turned bitter. Coated the back of my throat.
