By eight o’clock that evening, the commercial building on Westminster Street was quiet except for the hum of the heating pipes in the walls.

Caroline pushed her yellow mop bucket down the second-floor corridor, leaving a wet shine on the dark slate tiles.

She stopped to wring out the heavy cotton strands, rinsing gray water into the side strainer.

The heavy oak door to suite two hundred four stood open four inches, spilling yellow light across the hallway floor.

Grant’s voice came through the gap, loud and relaxed.

“The initial land parcel is secured under clean title,” Grant said.