Chapter 6

The truck was already moving when I reached Port Mason.

"STOP THAT TRUCK!" I shouted.

June spun around. Two warehouse workers ran toward the exit, but the driver accelerated, sending water spraying beneath his tires.

He was going to get away.

I grabbed the radio from a guard's desk.

"Close the gates! Nobody leaves this warehouse!"

Metal gates began sliding across the exit. The truck swerved, its horn blaring, and stopped just before the opening narrowed.

I ran toward it, my shoes splashing through puddles.

The driver climbed down, a thickset man in a grey jacket. He looked annoyed rather than frightened.

"What's the problem?"

"You're moving cargo without my permission."

He pulled a folded document from his pocket. "I've got authorization."

I snatched it from him.

My name was printed at the bottom.

Beneath it was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.

For a moment, I couldn't speak.

Someone had forged my approval.

"Who gave you this?"

"The dispatch office."

"Who in the dispatch office?"

"Lady, I just drive the truck. You want answers, call your people."

I looked at June. "Did you see what they loaded?"

"Three containers. The paperwork said they were industrial supplies."

"Did you verify the numbers?"

Her expression changed.

"No."

I turned back to the driver. "Open the cargo compartment."

He folded his arms. "I have a delivery to make."

"And I own the company that employs you. Open it."

He muttered something under his breath but climbed back into the cab and retrieved the keys.

The rear doors swung open.

Three metal containers sat inside, secured with thick straps. Their surfaces were wet from the rain. One had a white label with a red warning symbol, but the printed description had been scratched away.

I stepped closer.

"June, photograph everything."

She took out her phone.

I checked the identification numbers against the loading record she'd brought from the office.

The first number matched.

So did the second.

The third didn't exist on the manifest.

"Where did this container come from?" I asked.

The driver shook his head. "It was already on the loading list when I arrived."

"Who loaded it?"

"Ask your warehouse staff."

I turned to June.

She looked genuinely confused. "That container wasn't on the list I approved."

Someone had added it after her inspection.

I photographed the number and sent it to my lawyer.

"Nobody touches these containers until an independent safety team arrives," I ordered. "And I want copies of every dispatch record from last night."

The driver pulled out his phone.

"You're holding up a delivery worth millions. My supervisor won't be happy."

"Tell him to call me."

He stepped away to make the call.

I watched him closely. He wasn't behaving like a man caught doing something illegal. He seemed irritated, as though the delay was an inconvenience he expected someone powerful to resolve.

My phone rang.

Daniel.

I answered.

"Why have you stopped the truck?" he demanded.

"Someone forged my authorization."

"Don't be ridiculous. The release was approved."

"Not by me."

"You're making a mess of a situation you barely understand."

"Then explain why your office approved a shipment with a container missing from the manifest."

He said nothing.

I glanced at the truck.

"Daniel?"

"Release the cargo. I'll deal with the paperwork."

"No."

"You have no idea who you're interfering with."

"Then tell me."

He hung up.

I lowered the phone slowly.

That was twice now he'd refused to explain the shipment. This time, however, I had something he couldn't dismiss as an old report or a misunderstanding.

Someone had used my name to move undocumented cargo.

And Daniel wanted me to let it go.

"Miss Cross!"

June's voice pulled me around.

She was standing beside the truck, staring at the loading record.

"There's a problem."

"What now?"

She pointed to the three containers.

"According to the original record, four containers were loaded before the truck left the warehouse."

I counted them again.

Three.

"Where's the fourth?"

June shook her head.

"I don't know. It was recorded as loaded, but nobody here can tell me where it went."

A cold feeling crept up my back.

"Check the security footage."

"We already tried. The cameras covering the loading bay went offline for eleven minutes last night."

Eleven minutes.

Long enough to remove a container. Long enough to change the paperwork. Long enough for someone to make sure nobody saw what happened.

I called the police and requested an investigation into the forged authorization and missing cargo. Then I instructed June to preserve the original records and restrict access to the loading bay.

I wasn't going to let anyone erase the evidence.

My phone vibrated before I could put it away.

An unknown number.

YOUR FATHER FOUND OUT WHAT WAS IN THE WATER.

I stopped breathing for a second.

Another message appeared.

THAT'S WHY HE DIED.

I stared at the screen as rain tapped against the truck's metal roof.

My father hadn't simply stumbled across a suspicious shipment.

He had known something about the water.

Something worth hiding. Something worth threatening me over.

I looked at the container with the scratched-off label.

Then I noticed a small mark near its lower edge: a blue circle crossed by two black lines.

I had seen that symbol before.

It was printed on the old inspection report my father had signed.

My phone slipped slightly in my damp hand.

Whatever he had discovered, someone was still moving it through Crosswell.

And they had just realized I was looking.