Chapter 22 · Gunfire at the Docks

The address comes through at 2 a.m. No name attached. Just coordinates and a single line: *Your father left something for you.*

I'm in the car before I can think it through. Claire's asleep. Lin's at some late meeting across town. Good. I don't need questions right now.

The docks smell like rust and dead fish. My headlights cut through fog so thick I can barely see the warehouse numbers. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty-three.

There.

I kill the engine. Sit there with my hand on the door handle. This is stupid. This is how people get murdered in every thriller ever made.

But if Dad left something, if there's any chance he knew what was coming—

I get out.

The warehouse door's already open. Not broken. Just unlocked. Like someone's expecting me.

"Hello?"

My voice echoes off metal and concrete. Nothing answers.

I pull out my phone. Use the flashlight. The beam catches stacks of shipping containers, tarps over machinery, oil stains on the floor. And in the back corner, a metal desk that looks like it survived a fire.

There's a lockbox on top.

I cross the space fast. My footsteps sound too loud. Everything sounds too loud—