Chapter 4

“Do not let those containers reach the water supply.”

Adrian Voss's warning stayed with me long after the call ended.

I looked at the photograph on my laptop. Two chemical drums sat beside a blocked drain at Port Mason, their labels barely readable. One had already started leaking.

And Daniel wanted the shipment released.

I called Adrian back.

“How do you know about these containers?”

“I reviewed the original transfer request,” he answered. “The paperwork doesn't match the contents, and someone removed information from the safety records.”

“Who?”

“I can't prove that yet.”

“Then why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn't. Check the shipment number yourself. Then ask why two extra drums arrived without appearing on the manifest.”

The call ended.

I stared at the screen.

He was right about one thing. I didn't have to trust him to investigate the evidence.

I forwarded the warehouse records to Crosswell's lawyer and ordered an independent inspection. Until the drums were identified, nothing would leave Port Mason.

Then I called June.

“Keep the workers away from the damaged container. Has anyone tried to remove it?”

“No, ma'am. But Mr. Pike has called twice. He says the client won't accept another delay.”

“Let them complain. Nobody touches those drums without the inspector's approval.”

I ended the call and opened the company's transport schedule.

If the storm reached Port Mason tomorrow, the roads could become impassable before the inspection was complete. I needed to know whether our other coastal warehouses faced the same risk.

I had barely opened the map when Graham Pike stormed into my office.

“Have you lost your mind?”

He dropped a contract onto my desk.

“The client is threatening legal action. This shipment is worth millions, and you've stopped it over paperwork.”

“Two extra chemical drums arrived without proper documentation.”

“An error that can be corrected.”

“After the contents are identified.”

His face tightened. “Your father never treated his employees this way.”

“My father wouldn't have wanted them working beside a leaking chemical container.”

Graham's mouth opened, then closed.

I turned my laptop toward him, showing him the inspection report.

“Who ordered the shipment to be stored beside a drainage system already marked unsafe?”

“I wasn't responsible for the storage arrangements.”

“Then help me find out who was.”

He snatched up the contract.

“You're making a serious mistake, Evelyn.”

“Perhaps. But the shipment stays where it is.”

He left without another word.

I returned to the transport schedule, but a new email appeared before I could continue.

It was from Daniel's executive office.

*Release the Port Mason shipment immediately. No further inspection is required.*

I read it twice.

Then I forwarded it to the lawyer.

Daniel could be angry. Graham could threaten me. Neither of them could make me ignore a safety risk just to protect a contract.

Outside, rain tapped against the windows.

I checked the weather forecast. The storm warning had been upgraded, and several roads near Port Mason were now at risk of flooding.

In my first life, I hadn't known about the chemicals. I hadn't known about the shipment. I had believed the disaster began when the water rose.

Perhaps the warning signs had been there all along.

My phone rang.

June.

“Mrs. Cross, the inspector says the damaged drum must remain isolated until a specialist identifies its contents.”

“Good. Follow his instructions.”

“There is something else. A driver arrived asking when the remaining containers would be released.”

“Remaining containers?”

“He said his office had received approval to collect them tomorrow morning.”

I stood so quickly that my chair rolled backward.

“Who authorised the collection?”

“He didn't know. He only had a transport order.”

“Send me a copy. And don't release anything.”

A few minutes later, the document arrived.

The shipment number was the same.

But the destination had changed.

Instead of another warehouse, the containers were scheduled to go to a water-treatment plant outside the city.

I called the company lawyer again and told him to block the transfer.

Then I searched the records for the plant's name.

It supplied water to several coastal districts.

Including the neighbourhood where I had lived before the Black Tide.

My hands went cold.

I remembered the first days of the disaster—the brown water pouring from taps, the queues outside shops, the warnings telling people not to drink from certain sources.

I had always believed the flooding caused the contamination.

What if the danger had started before the water ever reached our streets?

I called Adrian.

He answered immediately.

“They've scheduled another transfer,” I said. “The containers are heading toward a water-treatment plant.”

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then his voice dropped.

“Send me the destination and the transport number. Do not let that shipment leave.”

“I've already placed it on hold.”

“Good. Evelyn, listen to me carefully. I need to see those original records.”

“Tomorrow. In person.”

“Agreed.”

I sent him the details and ended the call.

My eyes returned to the transport order.

Someone had approved the second transfer after I stopped the first. Someone knew the paperwork was incomplete and still wanted those containers moved.

I opened my notebook and wrote down the names of everyone who had authorised the shipment.

Daniel Mercer.

Graham Pike.

The procurement department.

Then I added a question beneath them.

WHO KNOWS WHAT IS INSIDE?

My phone vibrated again.

An unknown number.

The message contained only seven words.

STOP INVESTIGATING, OR YOUR FATHER'S FATE WILL BE YOURS.