The Berkeley house was a revelation. A 1957 post-and-beam with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a tangled, green canyon, it was light-filled, structurally sound, and in a state of glorious, terrifying disrepair. The kitchen was avocado green, the carpets were a crime, and the deck was being slowly consumed by wisteria. To Evelyn, it was a spreadsheet of projects. To Liam, it was a poem waiting to be edited. They signed the papers with a joint, giddy terror, funded by a heroic leap of faith from the Harringtons’ retainer and a terrifyingly large construction loan. It was their first true co-design, and it was for themselves.
Amidst the chaos of starting a firm and now a gut renovation, the shadow of the saboteur had receded but never vanished. The attacks had stopped after the Harringt
