I wonder if she understands that already or if she'll need to learn it the hard way.
Either way, it's coming.
The walk back to my wing is longer than I remember.
Every step echoes off the stone, and the house gives nothing back.
The staff are ghosts, doors closed, no sound from the kitchens or the upstairs landing.
The whole place feels like a stage after the curtain falls, set still there, lights down, audience gone.
I like it this way.
In the office, I flick the overhead switch and let the room fall dark.
The desk lamp stays off.
Only the faint electric glow of the phone lights my face as I scroll through the latest port entries, eyes adjusting to thecontrast of blue against black.
I find the line I'm looking for and press the contact, holding the phone to my ear as I sink into the chair.
It rings twice before a pause and then static crackles, followed by a hoarse voice.
"Nothing yet," he says, skipping any preamble.
"Manifest's still sitting in the queue, but no scan, no crate, no eyes. If it's in play, it hasn't moved."
I rub at the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension gather there like smoke.
"You're certain?"
There's a long pause.
Then, dry as sandpaper, "I'm paid to be."
I open the spreadsheet on my laptop with one hand while holding the call with the other.
The document is clean, save for one line that keeps coming back.
The shell company is registered out of Wexford, a fake agri-export firm folded into Crowley logistics just under two weeks ago, too fresh for a proper audit and buried among names that should have raised every internal flag.
It didn't.
That alone tells me someone wanted it invisible.
The company name—Deegan Bros.—crawls across the screen, and I stare at it, remembering Keira's father had a fondness for naming ghosts after family men.
"The invoice lists twenty metric tons of beans," I murmur, mostly to myself.
"But the item code is off by two decimals."
"You checked it?"
"I did the math twice."
"And?"
"That's a gap of at least fifty kilos. Too small for an accident, too large to miss."
