The Site Visit

I walked into the construction site like I was walking into a crime scene.

The Hotel San Nicolás was a skeleton of coral limestone and scaffolding, wrapped in green mesh to keep the dust off the tourists in the street. The noise was deafening—drills, saws, and the shouting of men trying to be heard over the Bachata blasting from a portable radio.

"¡Jefe! ¡Cuidado!" (Boss! Watch out!)

A man grabbed my arm, pulling me back just as a wheelbarrow full of wet concrete rattled past.

"Thanks," I said, dusting off my linen sleeve.

"You must be the Architect," the man said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag. He was built like a tank, with skin the color of cured tobacco and eyes that had seen too many deadlines. "I am Raúl. The Foreman."

"Max DeLuca," I said, shaking his hand. His grip was like a vice.

"We were not expecting you, Don Max," Raúl said, eyeing my clean boots. "The Señora... she said you were resting. Dealing with the jet lag."

"The Señora likes to manage expectations," I said dryly. "I want to see the courtyard arches."

Raúl hesitated. He looked toward the temporary site office—a metal shipping container sitting in the corner of the lot.

"The arches are... finished," Raúl said carefully.

"Show me."

We walked through the dust. The heat inside the site was oppressive, trapped by the stone walls. It smelled of wet cement and unwashed bodies.

We reached the central courtyard. It was the heart of the project. I had designed it to be an open-air sanctuary, supported by four massive limestone arches that mimicked the 16th-century style of the original monastery.

I looked up.

The arches were there. They were painted white. They looked perfect.

I walked up to the nearest column. I took a key out of my pocket and tapped the surface.

Clink.

It sounded hollow.

I scratched the paint. Underneath the white coating, I saw gray.

"Raúl," I said, my voice low. "This isn't limestone blocks."

Raúl looked at his boots. "No, Jefe."

"This is cinder block clad in plaster," I said, turning to him. "Who authorized this? My drawings specified solid cut stone. This is a hurricane zone. Cinder block doesn't have the shear strength for a structure this high."

"The budget was cut," Raúl shrugged, a gesture of helplessness common to men who take orders from ghosts. "The order came from New York two weeks ago. 'Value Engineering.' They said the stone was too heavy for the timeline."

"Too heavy for the timeline?" I laughed, a bitter sound. "Raúl, if a Category 4 storm hits this courtyard, these arches will snap like toothpicks. The roof will collapse."

"I know," Raúl said quietly. "I told the project manager. He said... he said the insurance covers acts of God."

Acts of God. That sounded like Cata. She didn't fear God; she just insured against Him.

I felt a cold rage settling in my stomach. This wasn't just cheap; it was dangerous. It was negligence.

"I need to see the updated schematics," I said. "Open the office."

Raúl shook his head. "I cannot, Don Max. The office is locked. Only the Project Manager has the key, and he is in Punta Cana until Friday."

"I am the Lead Architect," I snapped. "Break the lock."

"And lose my job?" Raúl looked at me steadily. "I have three kids, Jefe. I don't break locks."

I looked at the locked shipping container. I looked at the fake arches.

I pulled out my phone. I opened the PDF of the original blueprints. I needed to redraw the load-bearing calculations immediately. I needed to prove that the current structure was unsafe before they poured the second-floor slab.

But looking at a phone screen in the glaring sun was impossible.

"I need to print these," I muttered to myself. "Full size. A1 paper."

I thought of the jammed printer. The ink stains. The woman with the "Jefa" shirt who had told me I didn't belong here.

Imprenta Mercedes.

"Raúl," I said, putting my phone away. "Don't pour any more concrete. Tell the men to clean the site. I'll be back tomorrow with new drawings."

Raúl crossed his arms. "The Señora will not like delays."

"The Señora isn't standing under a collapsing roof," I said. "I am."

I turned and walked out of the site. I had a valid excuse now. It wasn't about the woman. It was about the building.

Structure is safety. And right now, the structure was failing.