Chapter 2 - The Shipment With My Name
I stared at the message until the letters blurred.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED UNDER THE TABLE.
“Khloe?”
Martin's voice seemed far away.
I locked my phone.
“Nothing.”
It was a stupid answer.
The security director had spent fifteen years investigating people who said “nothing” while obviously looking at something.
“May I see your phone?”
“No.”
Three sets of eyes turned toward me.
I stood.
“I didn't authorize that shipment, and until somebody tells me whether I'm being treated as an employee or a suspect, I'm not handing over anything personal.”
Legal exchanged a glance with security.
Martin looked almost proud.
“She's right.”
The lawyer straightened the documents.
“You're not formally accused of wrongdoing. We are suspending your system access while we investigate.”
“How long?”
“We don't know.”
Which meant go home.
Wait.
Wonder.
Exactly what someone wanted me to do.
I walked back to my desk under the attention of forty coworkers pretending not to watch.
My login had already been disabled.
I packed my purse.
When I opened the bottom drawer for my umbrella, I found an envelope.
No postage.
No name.
Inside was a single photograph.
Me.
Leaving the restaurant Saturday night.
Adrian Varga's driver holding the car door.
On the back, someone had written:
Bad choice of friends.
My hands went cold.
This time I didn't hesitate.
I called the number on the black card.
Varga answered after one ring.
“You kept it.”
No hello.
I looked around.
“How did you know it was me?”
“I didn't give that number to many people.”
“Someone photographed me getting into your car.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Where are you?”
“At work.”
“Stay inside.”
“My access was suspended.”
“Khloe.”
“There was a shipment. Someone used my corporate credentials.”
Another pause.
“What shipment?”
I told him.
When I gave him the container number, he stopped me.
“Repeat that.”
I did.
“NXU-481970.”
Nothing.
“Adrian?”
“Don't leave the building.”
“You know it.”
“I know the prefix.”
“What does that mean?”
“Stay inside.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
“Unbelievable.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Adrian Varga walked through Northline's lobby.
Every conversation within thirty feet seemed to die.
He wasn't wearing the charcoal suit from the restaurant.
Today it was black.
No tie.
Same controlled expression.
Two men followed at a respectful distance.
Martin hurried from his office.
“Mr. Varga?”
“Martin Ellis.”
They knew each other.
That surprised me almost as much as Adrian appearing at all.
“You two have met?” I asked.
Martin rubbed the back of his neck.
“Northline handles freight for several Varga-controlled companies.”
Adrian's gaze stayed on me.
“Show me the photograph.”
I handed him the envelope.
He looked once at the image.
Then at the back.
His face became completely still.
“Who knows about Saturday?” he asked.
“My coworkers at dinner. Jared. Restaurant staff.”
“And whoever took this.”
“Yes.”
“Shipment?”
I told him everything I could without violating company confidentiality.
He didn't need much.
“The electronic modules,” I said. “I recognize the numbering system.”
“From?”
“Jared's company.”
Adrian looked at Martin.
“Conference room.”
“This is an internal investigation.”
“Then investigate internally while I sit externally.”
Martin sighed.
Ten minutes later, all three of us were back inside.
Security pulled the audit record.
Adrian stood behind me.
He smelled faintly of cedar and expensive soap.
“Timestamp,” he said.
“Two thirteen Monday morning.”
“Where were you?”
“Home.”
“Can you prove it?”
I glared at him.
“Wonderful. You're interrogating me too.”
“I'm eliminating possibilities.”
“My apartment building logs key-card entries. I got home at eleven forty Saturday and didn't leave until seven twenty Monday.”
Security typed.
“Your account login came from the internal network.”
I frowned.
“That's impossible.”
“Someone used your workstation.”
“No. My computer requires badge authentication.”
Martin looked up.
“Your badge?”
I reached into my purse.
Empty pocket.
Another.
Then I remembered.
Saturday afternoon.
Coworker farewell dinner.
I had used my badge to exit through the employee garage.
Afterward I'd shoved it into my coat.
The coat I'd worn while running from Jared.
I searched every pocket.
Nothing.
“It isn't here.”
Adrian's expression darkened.
“When did you last see it?”
“Saturday.”
Security leaned forward.
“The login occurred after midnight Sunday.”
Everything became horribly simple.
Someone had my badge.
Someone knew my password or had obtained a session token.
Someone had entered Northline after hours.
“And the cameras?” I asked.
The security director looked uncomfortable.
“Camera twelve covering your floor was offline from 1:48 until 2:31.”
Adrian laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Convenient.”
I turned toward him.
“You said you recognized the container prefix.”
He looked at Martin.
Martin suddenly found the table fascinating.
“What?”
Adrian finally answered.
“NXU containers are operated by Norcross Exchange.”
“Who are they?”
“A shell logistics company.”
“For you?”
“No.”
“Then why do you know them?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because someone has spent the last eighteen months using Norcross to steal from me.”
The room went silent.
My anger overtook my fear.
“So this isn't about me.”
“I didn't say that.”
“They framed me using a container connected to someone stealing from you. Jared followed me into a restaurant where you happened to be sitting.”
Adrian's eyes sharpened.
“Careful.”
“Did you know I was coming?”
“No.”
“Did you know Jared?”
“No.”
“Do you expect me to believe all this is coincidence?”
“No.”
That answer stopped me.
Adrian stepped closer to the table.
“I expect you to believe that coincidences stop being coincidences when somebody starts arranging them.”
Martin whispered something I couldn't hear.
Security pulled up another document.
“What?” I asked.
He rotated the screen.
The shipment's vendor authorization.
Approved by a company called Cascade Technical Services.
Registered officer:
Jared Sloan.
My stomach turned.
Adrian read it.
Then looked at me.
“Your ex-boyfriend isn't simply following you.”
“I know.”
“No.”
His voice remained quiet.
“I don't think you do.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think he needed access to Northline.”
“And?”
“You had it.”
A memory surfaced.
Jared complaining about my hours.
Jared asking how customs audits worked.
Jared laughing when I refused to tell him my password.
Jared borrowing my laptop because his was updating.
Jared asking why my company made us carry physical badges when phones could authenticate everything.
Normal conversations.
At least they had felt normal then.
“What if our relationship wasn't the point?” I whispered.
Adrian didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
This time there was an attachment.
A photograph of my apartment door.
Taken from inside my hallway.
Underneath it:
Come home, Khloe. We need to talk.
Then another message arrived.
And don't bring Varga.
I looked at Adrian.
He had seen my face change.
“What?”
I showed him.
He read the message.
Then he did something I'd never seen him do.
He looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
“Your apartment isn't safe.”
“I know.”
“You're not going there.”
“You don't decide where I go.”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to the photograph.
“But whoever sent this believes they do.”
He picked up his phone.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“My house.”
I actually laughed.
“You've known me for four days.”
“You hid under my table.”
“Stop using that as a character reference.”
For the first time, he smiled.
A real smile.
It disappeared quickly.
“You can refuse. I'll arrange a hotel, security, whatever makes you comfortable. But you should not be alone.”
I looked at the photograph again.
My apartment.
My hallway.
My door.
Then I noticed something.
The reflection in the brass apartment number.
A blurry figure holding the phone.
Not enough to identify a face.
But enough to see the person's wrist.
A silver bracelet.
Three linked circles.
I knew that bracelet.
I had bought it as a Christmas gift.
Not for Jared.
For someone at Northline.
My supervisor's assistant.
Emily Ross.
I looked toward the glass wall outside the conference room.
Emily's desk was empty.
“Martin?”
“Yes?”
“Where's Emily?”
He frowned.
“She called in sick.”
Adrian saw the bracelet too.
“Get her address.”
Martin hesitated.
Then security's phone rang.
He answered.
His face drained of color.
“What?”
He listened.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
“Emily Ross was found at Sea-Tac an hour ago.”
“Found doing what?” I asked.
“Trying to board a flight.”
“To where?”
He looked at Adrian.
“Antwerp.”
The same city listed as the shipment's final destination.
May you like
And suddenly the room no longer felt like an office.
It felt like the first square on a board where somebody else had been moving pieces long before I knew there was a game.
