The drafters had gone home, and the streetlights along Mill Street flickered on against the damp gray twilight.

Caroline sat alone at her desk behind the main showroom.

The blueprints for the boutique hotel were rolled up neatly and stored in their leather tube.

She pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk and used a small steel key to open the locked metal box inside.

From the bottom of the box, beneath her first tax returns and the original lease for the studio, she lifted out a yellowed piece of paper.

Pinned to the corner was the green certified mail receipt from eleven years ago.