Chapter 2

The first person to tell me I couldn't have my own company was a man who worked for my father.

I arrived at Crosswell Logistics at nine fifteen that morning, carrying a leather folder and the kind of anger that made my hands feel steady.

The building stood behind a row of glass offices on the east side of the city. Trucks rolled in and out of the loading yard, their engines rumbling beneath the sharp beeping of reversing alarms. Workers in orange vests moved pallets across the concrete. Everything looked ordinary.

I knew how quickly that could change.

In sixty days, the loading yard would be underwater. The road outside would become a river. Half the trucks parked here would be useless, and people would fight over the few that still ran.

I couldn't save every truck.

But I could decide what happened to them.

The receptionist looked up as I approached.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mercer. Is Mr. Pike expecting you?”

“No. But tell him I'm here.”

Her fingers paused above the keyboard.

“Should I ask what the meeting is about?”

“Company business.”

I gave her a polite smile and waited.

Five minutes later, Graham Pike came out of the elevator.

He had worked for my father for nearly fifteen years. He was in his fifties, with silver at his temples and a habit of adjusting his cuff links whenever he was annoyed. My father had trusted him with the daily running of the company.

I had trusted him because my father had.

“Evelyn,” he said, shaking my hand. “You should have called.”

“I wanted to speak in person.”

“Of course. Come into my office.”

His office overlooked the loading yard. From the window, I could see a blue delivery truck pulling up beside the warehouse.

Graham offered me coffee.

“No, thank you.”

He sat behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I want a complete list of our active warehouse leases, vehicle registrations, fuel contracts, and transport agreements. I also want to know who currently has access to the company accounts.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That's quite a request.”

“It's my company.”

“Of course it is.” He folded his hands. “But these records are handled by several departments. It will take time to put everything together.”

“How much time?”

“A week, perhaps.”

I opened my folder and placed a document on his desk.

“My father named me the sole beneficiary of his controlling shares. I want the records today.”

He read the first page, then looked at me again.

“Has something happened between you and Daniel?”

There it was.

Not a question about the business. Not a question about what I needed.

Daniel.

“He has no reason to be involved in this meeting.”

“Your husband has helped with several major contracts. Your father approved the arrangement.”

“My father approved him advising the company. He didn't give Daniel ownership.”

Graham's mouth tightened.

“I don't think you're being fair. Daniel has brought in valuable clients.”

“And how much has he charged the company for doing it?”

The question caught him off guard.

I had never asked things like that before. I used to let the men handle the numbers while I attended charity dinners and signed whatever my husband placed in front of me.

That Evelyn was dead.

Graham opened a drawer and removed a thin file.

“Perhaps you should review the current management agreements before making any decisions.”

I took it from him.

Several pages in, I found Daniel's name beside a document granting him authority over certain transport contracts and warehouse operations.

My signature sat at the bottom.

I remembered signing it.

Daniel had told me it was temporary. He said he needed the authority to negotiate a contract while I was recovering from a minor surgery. I had signed without reading every page.

In my first life, I hadn't understood what that signature meant until it was too late.

I closed the file.

“Who approved the most recent extensions?”

“Daniel and the finance director.”

“Without my approval?”

“Under the authority already granted.”

I stood.

“Then send me every document connected to that authority. Nothing gets renewed or transferred without my written consent until my lawyer has reviewed it.”

Graham rose too.

“Evelyn, you can't simply walk in and freeze the company's operations.”

“I'm not freezing anything. I'm reviewing what belongs to me.”

“And if your decision causes us to lose a client?”

“Then show me the contract before you make that argument.”

I left him standing beside his desk.

For the first time that morning, I felt the full weight of what I had inherited.

My father hadn't left me a fortune sitting in a bank. He had left me a living machine, one that moved goods across hundreds of miles and depended on thousands of small decisions.

I had sixty days to learn which parts could save lives.

And which parts might destroy them.

***

By eleven, I had claimed a small conference room and ordered the warehouse records sent to my laptop.

The first report was forty pages long.

The second was ninety-three.

I worked through them with a notebook beside me, marking locations, vehicle capacity, fuel access, and distance from the coast. Most of the warehouses were poorly placed for a flood. Two stood on higher ground. One had a private well and enough space to store supplies for hundreds of people.

I circled that one.

Then I found the transfer.

A coastal warehouse near Port Mason had been scheduled to receive emergency water containers, industrial filters, and chemical storage drums. The shipment was due to leave in four days.

I checked the destination.

The warehouse sat close to a low-lying industrial district. In my first life, the area had been among the earliest places cut off by floodwater.

Why were we sending supplies there?

I opened the attached notes.

The shipment had been approved by Graham Pike and Daniel Mercer.

My fingers tightened around the mouse.

I couldn't remember this transfer from my first life. Back then, I had known almost nothing about the company's daily operations. I had spent my time trying to make Daniel happy while he quietly gained control over the things my father had built.

Perhaps the shipment had always existed.

Perhaps it was harmless.

Or perhaps my memories were already becoming unreliable.

I copied the documents onto a separate drive and called the warehouse manager.

A woman answered after the fourth ring.

“Port Mason warehouse. This is June.”

“My name is Evelyn Cross. I'm reviewing the upcoming shipment scheduled for your facility.”

Her voice changed at once.

“Mrs. Cross? Is there a problem?”

“Not yet. I need to know what is being stored there and whether the warehouse has been inspected recently.”

“Mr. Pike said the shipment was urgent.”

“That's not what I asked.”

A pause followed.

Then I heard papers moving.

“We've had trouble with the drainage system,” she admitted. “The last inspection flagged two loading bays, but we were told repairs would happen after the shipment arrived.”

My stomach tightened.

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Mercer's office.”

I looked at the transfer approval on my screen.

“Do not unload anything until I call you back. I will send an inspector today.”

“Mrs. Cross, if I refuse the shipment, I could lose my job.”

“You won't lose your job for following a written safety order from the owner.”

I ended the call and immediately emailed the inspection request.

For several seconds, I sat without moving.

The flood in my memories had not started with one giant wave. It had started with heavy rain, blocked roads, failed pumps, and people insisting there was still time to fix things.

Small warnings.

Ignored warnings.

Then the water came, and nobody had enough time.

My phone lit up.

Daniel.

I let it ring.

A message appeared.

*What are you doing at Crosswell? Graham says you've been asking questions about my contracts.*

I typed a reply.

*Your contracts are under review.*

His response came almost immediately.

*Call me. Now.*

I put the phone facedown.

Another message followed.

*Evelyn, don't embarrass yourself by interfering in something you don't understand.*

I read it twice.

Then I opened the transfer document and sent him a formal notice that the shipment required an independent safety inspection.

My hands didn't shake when I pressed send.

That felt better than any insult I could have thrown at him.

***

At twelve thirty, the office lights flickered.

A few people looked up from their desks. Someone joked about the building needing a new generator.

Then my laptop chimed.

A weather alert appeared across the screen.

**SEVERE COASTAL STORM WARNING — PORT MASON DISTRICT**

I read the notice carefully.

Heavy rainfall was expected to begin the following evening. Local authorities advised businesses in low-lying areas to review drainage systems and prepare for possible road closures.

Tomorrow evening.

I checked the date again.

In my first life, I remembered the first major coastal warning arriving much later. The rain had been bad, but the roads had remained open for weeks.

I opened the weather map.

The storm's projected path had shifted inland.

Right toward the warehouses I had just marked.

A cold feeling settled beneath my ribs.

I printed the alert and called June again.

“Have the trucks left?”

“Not yet. They're loading now.”

“Stop them.”

“Mrs. Cross, the drivers are already here.”

“Then pay them to wait. No one takes that shipment onto the road until the inspection is complete.”

I heard her arguing with someone in the background.

Then she came back.

“I've stopped the loading.”

“Good. Keep the workers inside the main building and tell them to secure the lower storage area. I'll arrange for an inspection team.”

I hung up and looked through the glass wall at the busy office.

People were laughing near the elevators. A delivery driver wheeled a stack of boxes past reception. Outside, the sky had turned the dull grey of wet concrete.

Nobody here knew what was coming.

I opened my notebook and added three words beneath the warehouse address.

**MOVE SUPPLIES EARLY.**

Then I circled the date of the storm.

I had come back sixty days before the end of the world.

But the future was already moving without my permission.