"Old case files. Some from before Chief Murdoch's time." She drops her hands, movements careful and deliberate. "Thought you might want them properly catalogued for your investigation."
"How do you know what I'm investigating?"
"Small island. Small station. You were at the docks questioning MacKinnon about last night." Rhona shrugs, the gesture carrying more message than words. "News travels fast here. People talk."
The explanation sounds reasonable. Almost. But reasonable doesn't explain why she's in the evidence room without permission in the first place.
I could push harder and demand to know exactly what she was looking for. But if she's involved in the corruption, confronting her now just warns the others. And if she's innocent, I've just alienated the only other officer in this station.
I finally holster my weapon.
"People warn each other, you mean." She's either involved in whatever corruption infects this place, or she's protecting people she cares about from an outsider who doesn't understand local dynamics. Both options make her a liability, not an ally. "Thank you for the organization efforts, Deputy Fraser. You're dismissed for the day."
A muscle ticks in her jaw. "I still have hours left on my shift."
"Consider it administrative leave with pay." I hold her gaze and make clear this isn't negotiable. "I need to process evidence without interruption. We'll discuss proper procedure for accessing restricted areas tomorrow."
For a moment, I think she'll argue, then her face goes carefully blank. "Understood."
Rhona nods once, sharply, and retrieves her coat from the rack by the door. She doesn't say goodbye, doesn't offer any pleasantries. Just leaves in silence that speaks louder than words.
The station feels oppressive once I'm alone. Too quiet, too empty, too heavy with the weight of secrets everyone seems to know except me. I need to check the evidence room thoroughly and catalogue what Rhona might have accessed or altered.
The door opens easily—she left it unlocked when I interrupted her. Inside, metal shelves line the walls, boxes labeled with case numbers and dates stretching back years. Iscan the labels systematically and look for patterns in what's here and what's conspicuously absent.
That's when I notice the gaps.
The filing system jumps from case number ST-Mur-247 to ST-Mur-263. There are sixteen case files missing. I check the log-in sheet mounted by the door, and those numbers should exist. They were logged as opened by Chief Murdoch multiple times in the months before his "accident."
His working files on unusual cargo activity are gone.
I move deeper into the room and check evidence boxes. There are more gaps. There are seized materials from harbor inspections that should be here based on the intake logs. There are photographs referenced in reports but missing from their folders. There are witness statements mentioned in case summaries but nowhere to be found.
Someone's been systematically removing evidence, and Rhona was in here alone while going through files she claimed she was "organizing."
This job is becoming more complicated than I anticipated. It's not just smuggling to investigate, but child trafficking to stop and systematic corruption to untangle. There are locals who view me as the enemy rather than the solution, and there's missing evidence that proves my predecessor was murdered for getting too close to the truth.
Glasgow prepared me for hostile witnesses and threatening criminals, but at least there I had departmental support and colleagues who shared my commitment to law enforcement.
Here, I'm alone.
The realization settles over me with uncomfortable weight. I'm alone in a station that might be compromised and alone on an island where everyone seems connected to criminal activity or protecting those who are.
But being alone doesn't mean being helpless. I've worked harder cases with less support. Determination and persistence will crack this eventually, same as they've cracked every other obstacle in my career.
I spend the rest of the afternoon documenting everything. I photograph the ledger pages and make notes on discrepancies between official records and harbor documentation. I record the horrifying realization about the Cork shipment and those twelve missing children. I create a timeline of suspicious activity starting from my first night on the island. Building a case requires meticulous record-keeping and a refusal to let gaps in evidence derail the investigation.
By the time I finish, darkness has settled over Stormhaven. My small rental cottage waits on the western edge of town, overlooking rocky coastline that crashes with endless waves. I chose the location for privacy and the view, wanting separation between work and personal life.
Now I'm grateful for the isolation. Whatever's happening on this island—child trafficking, evidence tampering, systematic corruption—keeping distance from potential surveillance seems prudent.
The drive takes longer than I expect, and my mind replays the day's events on endless loop. There's O'Donnell's warnings and MacKinnon's hostility. There's Rhona's unauthorized evidence room access and the missing files that prove a cover-up. There's the Cork manifest with its twelve "units" of livestock that were actually children.
They're all pieces of a puzzle I don't yet understand, threads connecting in ways I can't quite see.
The cottage's exterior light illuminates weathered stone and a small, overgrown garden. The key turns smoothly in the lock, and the door swings open to reveal familiar space exactly as I left it this morning.
Except it isn't.
