“Jason said the same,” Bree said. “If my studio looks like a prison cell, I’m out. But if we can hide the security in the bones, I can live with that.”
“We can,” Colby said. “I’ll talk to Jason about wiring and camera placements when we walk the place.”
“Speaking of,” Brian said, checking his watch, “you’re meeting him when?”
“Half an hour,” Hank said. “He’s finishing a walk-through at one of the boardwalk places.”
Brian slid out of the booth. “Then we’d better get moving. I want to see my future lift bay.”
They paid, said quick goodbyes to the staff who recognized Hank, and walked back toward Bay Street. The farther they got from the waterfront crowds, the quieter the streets became. The warehouse loomed at the end of the block, brick stained and windows clouded with years of salt and dust.
Jason Keene already stood out front, blueprints under one arm, a hard hat dangling from his hand. He wore the same pencil behind his ear and the same practical boots he’d had on in the mayor’s office.
“You came back,” he said. “Always a good sign.”
“We brought reinforcements,” Hank said. “Jason, this is Brian Knight and Colby Landon. The other two-thirds of the brain cell.”
Jason shook their hands. “Good to meet you. Let’s go see what we’re dealing with.”
Inside, the warehouse smelled like old wood, motor oil, and the faint tang of salt driven in on sea wind. Dust motes spun in shafts of light. The ground floor stretched long and deep, the concrete cracked but solid.
Jason walked them through the space, pointing out support columns, water lines, and electrical panels that needed to be replaced yesterday. He spoke in practical phrases, the way Hank remembered engineers talking in briefing rooms.
“We replace this panel,” Jason said, tapping a metal box that had seen better decades, “run new lines along here, re-route for whatever heavy equipment you want. Where are you thinking lifts and dyno?”
“Lifts along that wall,” Hank said, pointing. “Dyno at the back, with exhaust ventilation tied into that existing duct if we can salvage it.”
Jason measured with his eyes. “We can. We’ll have to reinforce that wall if you want to anchor anything serious. But it’s workable.”
Bree drifted toward the steel staircase leading upstairs, her steps soft on the treads. Hank watched her go.
“She okay?” Jason asked quietly.
“She’s thinking,” Hank said. “That’s good for all of us.”
Jason nodded. “Upstairs is in better shape structurally,” he said. “Less water intrusion. More natural light. It’s going to clean up nice.”
They climbed after her. The second floor opened out into a wide expanse with tall windows facing the harbor. The glass was cracked in places, but the light poured in.
Bree stood near one of the windows, palm flat against the dusty sill, eyes half closed. Her sketchbook dangled from her other hand.
Hank came up beside her. “What do you see?”
“Walls knocked back,” she said. “White paint, but not too clean. A big work table there. Easels along that side. A couch in the corner for when I forget how to sit like a normal person. And that entire wall…” She pointed opposite the windows. “Gallery space. Rotating work. Maybe a couple of pieces that never move.”
“Security film on the glass,” Jason said. “New frames. We can keep the size. The light’s kind of the whole point.”
Bree chewed her lower lip. “No bars,” she said.
“No bars,” Jason agreed. “We’ll put shutters on the outside that roll down at night; from the street, they’ll look like part of the building. Cameras at the stairwell and entrance. That way, anyone who comes up here is either invited or recorded.”
Hank saw the tension in Bree’s shoulders, saw it ease a fraction at the word recorded. “You okay with that?” he asked.
She nodded slowly. “I can live with shutters if they’re up when I’m working,” she said. “And if the cameras aren’t giant, blinking red eyes.”
“I leave the blinking to smoke alarms,” Jason said. “We’ll keep them discreet.”
They walked farther into the space. Brian and Colby peeled off, talking excitedly about mezzanines and storage. Jason stopped near a section of floor where the boards creaked.
