I heard the crack from inside the laundry corridor at Veils, his restaurant on Walnut Street, but I did not know what it was yet.

By 5:00 AM, the kitchen at Veils was already alive with the hiss of steam and the sharp metallic clatter of copper pots. I was back at my post. I had to be. Rent was due, and grief or fear never paid the landlord.

The service door swung open, bringing a gust of freezing November air. But it wasn't the vegetable delivery.

Two men in gray trench coats walked straight past the prep tables and into the laundry corridor. One of them held a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a dark blue employee badge.

My name was printed clearly across the plastic: Elena Vance, Linen & Sanitation.

"Elena Vance?" the taller one asked, flashing a leather-bound identification folder that wasn't police issue. It bore the seal of the Vale family internal tribunal.

"Yes?" My hands froze inside the warm suds of the utility sink.

"You're wanted in the executive suite on the fourth floor. Immediately."

"I'm working—"

"You're not working anymore," the second man said, stepping closer. "You're under internal investigation for conspiracy, corporate espionage, and attempted assassination."

The world tilted. The soapy water in the sink blurred into a gray smear. I wiped my hands on my apron, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Assassination? I was folding sheets three feet away when he collapsed! My granddaughter was right there!"

"Your employee badge," the first man said, holding up the plastic bag, "was found jammed in the electronic lock of Dominic Vale’s private study on the third floor. The time stamp places it at 2:14 PM yesterday—the exact minute his private safe was accessed and his emergency medical override device was disabled."

I stared at the blue plastic card. It was mine. I wore it clipped to my waistband every single day. But I hadn't been on the third floor in months. I cleaned the basement and the ground-floor laundry rooms.