Chapter 3 The Assignment

Isla Pov

I make it back to my office before my legs give out.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I lean against it, trying to breathe. Trying to process. Ellis Kennedy knew who I was. He knew about my father. And he assigned me to that project—the place where everything ended.

"Isla?"

Brandon's voice makes me jump. He's standing in my doorway, concern etched across his face.

"What did Kennedy want?"

I move to my desk on autopilot, setting down the project folder Ellis handed me before I left the conference room. My hands are steadier now. Anger does that—burns through shock, leaving something harder behind.

"He put me on the east district project."

The color drains from Brandon's face. "The renewal project? Isla, that's where—"

"I know." My voice sounds flat even to my own ears.

"Why would he assign you there?" Brandon steps inside, closing the door behind him. "That's... that's either incredibly insensitive or—"

"Or intentional."

The words hang between us. Brandon shifts uncomfortably, his gaze sliding away from mine. There's something in that movement, something furtive that would normally make me press for answers.

But right now, I can't think about Brandon's secrets. I have too many of my own.

"Maybe it's just a coincidence," he offers, unconvincingly.

"He knew about my father. Knew where it happened." I open the folder, scanning the preliminary documents. "That's not coincidence. That's strategy."

"What are you going to do?"

Good question. The smart move would be to decline the assignment, request a transfer, maybe even quit. Put distance between myself and Ellis Kennedy before this situation becomes more complicated than it already is.

But the smart move won't give me answers.

"I'm going to the site," I say, grabbing my bag. "This afternoon."

"Isla—"

"I need to see it, Brandon. I need to understand why he's doing this."

He looks like he wants to argue, but something stops him. That same uncomfortable guilt I saw earlier.

"Be careful," he finally says.

The east district sits on the city's edge, where gentrification meets urban decay. I park along the chain-link fence surrounding the construction site, my car the only one on this forgotten stretch of street.

It's been redeveloped since my father's death—new buildings where old ones stood, fresh concrete covering bloodstains no one talks about—but the bones are the same. The layout. The street grid. The way shadows fall in the late afternoon light.

I was eighteen when I last stood here. When police officers with careful voices told me there'd been an accident. When my mother collapsed in my arms, keening like something broken.

The official report said a crane malfunctioned. Brake line failure. The boom swung into scaffolding where my father was conducting a routine inspection. He fell forty feet. Dead before the ambulance arrived.

Mechanical failure. Tragic. Unavoidable.

But standing here now, with a decade of distance and an architect's trained eye, something feels wrong.

I pull out my phone, open the project files Ellis gave me. The blueprints load slowly—foundation layouts, permit applications, environmental assessments. Standard documentation.

Except it's not standard. Not quite.

I walk the perimeter, comparing the current site to the plans on my screen. The foundation markers don't align properly. There are discrepancies in the permit filings—sections marked "completed" that show no evidence of work. Equipment logs that don't match the visible progress.

Someone's falsifying records.

My pulse quickens. Why would anyone falsify construction records unless they're hiding something? What could be worth covering up for ten years?

I'm so focused on the blueprints that I almost miss it—the sensation of being watched. That prickling awareness that lifts the hairs on your neck.

I look up sharply, scanning the empty site. Chain-link fence. Concrete skeletons. Warning signs. No movement. No one visible.

But the feeling persists.

My phone buzzes in my hand, making me flinch. A text from an unknown number:

You shouldn't be there. Some truths are buried for a reason.

Ice floods my veins. I spin around, searching for whoever sent it. The site remains empty, but there—across the street, partially hidden by a burned-out building—is that a car? A figure?

I squint into the shadows. Nothing. Just paranoia.

Except my phone is still buzzing. Not a text this time, but a call. Same unknown number.

I reject it, fingers shaking.

Another text appears immediately:

Leave. Now.

I don't need to be told twice. I run to my car, fumbling with keys, throwing myself into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life and I peel away from the curb, heart hammering against my ribs.

Six blocks from the construction site, I notice the black SUV.

It's three cars back, maintaining a steady distance. When I turn left, it follows. When I speed up, it matches my pace. Professional. Deliberate.

Someone is following me.

My mind races through options. I could drive to the police station—but what would I tell them? That I got a threatening text? That someone might be following me? They'd file a report and send me home.

I could call Brandon. Or Ellis.

Ellis, who somehow knew exactly where to send me. Who assigned me to the project where my father died. Who might be behind all of this.

No. Not Ellis. He couldn't be. Could he?

I take a sudden right turn, tires squealing. The SUV hesitates, then follows. My pulse spikes.

Another turn. Another. I weave through traffic, testing whether they're really following or if I'm being paranoid. But every time I think I've lost them, the SUV reappears in my rearview mirror.

Finally, I see my chance—a yellow light ahead. I gun the engine, shooting through the intersection just as it turns red. The SUV stops, forced to wait.

I don't slow down until I'm three miles away and the SUV is nowhere in sight.

My apartment building has never looked more welcoming. I park in the underground garage, take the elevator up with my keys clutched between my fingers like a weapon, and don't breathe properly until my door is locked and bolted behind me.

The apartment is dark. Quiet. Exactly as I left it this morning.

Except it's not.

On my kitchen counter, illuminated by the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, sits a manila envelope.

I didn't leave that there. I'm certain.

My heart hammers as I approach slowly, half-expecting someone to burst from a closet. But the apartment remains silent. Empty.

With trembling fingers, I open the envelope.

Inside is a single photograph. Old, slightly faded—the kind taken on film, not digital. It shows the east district construction site. The same location I just visited, but a decade younger. Scaffolding. Cranes. Workers in hard hats.

And in the background, barely visible, two figures standing apart from the others. One I recognize immediately—my father, holding what looks like blueprints, his expression troubled.

The other figure is turned away from the camera, face obscured. But there's something about their posture, the expensive cut of their suit even in this grainy photograph, that makes my skin prickle.

And there, at the edge of the frame—fresh tire marks in the dirt where there shouldn't be any. The kind left by heavy vehicles arriving or leaving in a hurry.

The day of the accident.

Someone took this photo the day my father died. And whoever took it saw something the official investigation missed. Or covered up.

I flip the photograph over with shaking hands. On the back, written in careful block letters:

THEY LIED ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. YOUR FATHER KNEW TOO MUCH.

The photograph slips from my fingers, fluttering to the counter.

Someone broke into my apartment. Someone wants me to know the truth—that my father's death wasn't an accident. That someone killed him to keep him quiet.

Or someone wants me scared enough to stop asking questions.

Either way, I'm no longer sure which terrifies me more.