Julian's Assessment

The empty squares on the black construction paper were screaming at me. A deliberate, calculated erasure.

I slammed the heavy leather cover shut. Dust puffed out from the gilded edges. The front doorbell chimed, followed by two sharp knocks. Julian.

I shoved the album back onto the bottom shelf, smoothing the spine to make it look undisturbed, and hurried to the front of the house.

Julian stood on the porch, holding a thick roll of city permit applications. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and competent, smelling faintly of sawdust and black coffee. He looked at my pale face, his professional demeanor slipping slightly.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Eleanor."

"Just old house drafts," I deflected, stepping back to let him into the foyer. "Did you pull the permits?"

"I did." Julian unrolled the paperwork on the hallway credenza, weighting the edges with his heavy tape measure. "But we have a problem. The city has no record of any structural changes to the second floor after the original build in 1928."

"I knew it." I pressed my fingertips against the edge of the credenza. "The wall in the closet was built later. Much later. Modern pine studs, sixteen inches on center. Industrial screws."

Julian's brow furrowed. He was a contractor who valued the law almost as much as he valued a plumb line. "If they added a partition wall without pulling a permit, that's a code violation. A big one, given the size of the estate. The city could fine you, or worse, make us tear it down immediately to inspect the load-bearing integrity."

"I don't want the city involved yet," I said quickly. Too quickly.

Julian looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "Eleanor, if that wall is hiding faulty wiring or asbestos, I need to know before my crew starts swinging hammers."

"It's not wiring." I walked past him, heading toward the back door. "Come outside. I want you to look at the brickwork on the east gable."

He grabbed his tape measure and followed me out onto the freezing patio. The winter sun was weak, casting long, sharp shadows across the frozen lawn.

I pointed up at the second-story exterior wall. "Look at the mortar joints between the master bedroom window and the corner of the house."

Julian squinted, walking backward to get a better angle. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his tool belt and brought them to his eyes. He stood perfectly still for a long minute.

"The mortar is a different color," he murmured, his voice tight. "Slightly lighter gray. Less weathering."

"They removed a window," I said, the realization settling like ice in my stomach. "They bricked it up to make the room smaller. To create the void."

Julian lowered the binoculars. He walked up to the side of the house, running his hand over the rough red brick. He tapped the handle of his tape measure against the wall, listening to the solid, unyielding sound. Then he stepped back, looking at the entire structure.

"To brick up a window on a second-story Tudor, you need scaffolding. You need specialized masonry tools to match the 1920s brick face." Julian turned to me, his expression grave. "That's not a weekend DIY project. That's professional work."

"But there's no permit," I repeated.

"No." Julian tapped the tape measure against his palm. "And there wouldn't be a record with any reputable masonry company in town either, because no professional would do this without a permit. Not on a house this prominent."

He walked back to the patio, his boots heavy on the flagstones. He looked up at the blank expanse of brick where a window used to be. The window Marcus Finch remembered.

Julian frowned. 'Whoever built this wall was trying to hide it from the inspectors.'