Chapter 2 The Escape Route #2
The vehicle pulled away.
I watched until the rain swallowed its taillights.
“What the hell did you do?”
Anchor’s voice came from behind me.
Roman Bell had served as Breakwater’s president for eleven years. At forty-seven, he carried authority without needing to raise his voice. His hair was cut close to his scalp, and a faded scar crossed the left side of his neck.
He looked from me to North.
Nobody answered quickly enough.
Anchor’s gaze dropped to the table, where copies of revised transport authorizations showed my name crossed out.
“Chapel,” he said.
“We don’t have time,” North replied.
“We make time.”
“Harborlight just relocated command.”
Anchor looked at me.
“Why?”
I forced the words out.
“I falsified route manifests.”
His expression went still.
“For what?”
“To hide an affair.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
Anchor stepped closer.
“Who?”
“Simone Vail.”
“BaySpan?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
He struck me.
There was no warning. One moment he stood in front of me, and the next his fist connected with my jaw.
I hit the edge of the dispatch table and caught myself before I went down.
North moved between us.
“Not now.”
Anchor pointed past him.
“You used my truck?”
“At least once.”
“My fuel?”
“I need to check.”
“You used emergency routes?”
“No active supply routes.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I created false inspection runs.”
Anchor’s face changed.
The affair angered him.
The manifests frightened him.
He understood immediately what I had refused to understand for months.
“Does Simone have access?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did she see the forms?”
“I sent a photograph of one.”
“One?”
“At least one.”
Gauge spoke from the radio table.
“We need to preserve every system before this goes further.”
Anchor nodded.
“Do it.”
“Delaney already ordered an offline backup.”
Something unreadable crossed Anchor’s face. Respect, anger, perhaps both.
“Of course she did.”
A radio cracked to life.
“Breakwater Command, North.”
North answered.
“Go.”
“Levee Road inspection complete,” a rider reported. “Water rising on the east approach. Parish crew says closure within ninety minutes.”
“Copy. Return by Industrial Route Four.”
North replaced the radio.
“We still have a storm to run.”
Anchor looked at me.
“You’re off operational command.”
The statement hit with a second impact.
“I know the routes.”
“So does North.”
“I inspected the levee.”
“You falsified inspections.”
“Not today.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
I did.
That was the problem.
Every sentence I spoke sounded like an attempt to separate the reliable man I had been in public from the dishonest one I had become in private.
There was no separation left.
North gathered the revised route sheets.
“Gauge, move dispatch authority to my credentials. Theo, get the Bayou Parish pallets loaded. Anchor, I need you on the county call in ten minutes.”
Then he looked at me.
“Go to your office.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“North.”
“You are not touching another manifest until we know what you compromised.”
My hands curled.
His gaze dropped to them.
I opened my fingers.
Restraint was the first useful thing I had done since entering the room.
I went to my office.
The small space overlooked the repair bays through a dirty interior window. A desk, two metal chairs, filing cabinets, and a wall map filled most of it.
Delaney had installed the filing system herself.
Colored tabs.
Numbered route categories.
A retention schedule printed inside every drawer.
I had complained that it was excessive.
Then I had used it to hide where I went.
I sat at the desk and opened the physical vehicle-log binder.
brK-12.
Six weeks earlier.
My handwriting showed departure at 22:32 and return at 03:21.
The destination column read Western fuel survey.
I remembered the night.
Simone had been waiting at the Bayou Crown wearing a green dress and an expression that made me feel uncomplicated.
Delaney had called at midnight to ask whether the western depot needed additional locking chains.
I had stood in the motel bathroom and told my wife I would check.
Then I had returned to bed with another woman.
Nausea rose hard enough that I gripped the desk.
I turned back through the binder.
Another false run.
Then another.
Seven.
There were seven paper manifests.
Six had been entered into Harborlight’s digital archive.
One remained in my truck because I had canceled the meeting after driving halfway west.
I had told Simone three days ago that we were done.
Not because courage had finally reached me.
Because Delaney had asked why my shirts sometimes smelled like hotel detergent.
She had not accused me. She had only stood beside the washing machine holding a black work shirt and looked confused.
The question had followed me for two days.
I had ended the affair because the walls were narrowing, not because I had become honest.
A knock struck the door.
Gauge entered without waiting.
“Your system access is dead.”
“I know.”
“Personal cloud accounts connected to the second phone?”
“One.”
“Provider?”
I told him.
“Password?”
“I’ll write it down.”
He set a legal pad on the desk.
“Do it.”
I wrote the username and password.
Gauge tore off the page.
“Any automatic deletion?”
“Messages after thirty days, but I changed the thread with Simone to keep everything.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
Because I had liked rereading proof that someone wanted me.
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I liked having it.”
Disgust crossed his face before he controlled it.
Good.
I deserved an honest reaction.
“Did she ever log into Harborlight?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you send spreadsheets?”
“No.”
“Vehicle inventories?”
“No.”
“Generator serial numbers?”
“No.”
“Photos taken inside restricted areas?”
“Only the manifest on my desk.”
“Only?”
“I need to review the thread.”
“You should have thought about that before using club operations as foreplay.”
He left before I could answer.
I remained at the desk while the storm gathered outside.
At four twenty, the county call began over the speaker in the main room. I heard Anchor, North, and three parish officials discussing closures, shelters, and available transport.
Delaney’s voice entered from St. Brigid.
Clear.
Professional.
She reassigned riders, confirmed power capacity, and corrected a county official who understated the number of medically dependent residents being moved inland.
She sounded exactly as she always sounded during emergencies.
That hurt more than tears would have.
She was doing the work while carrying what I had done to her.
At four forty-seven, Anchor entered my office carrying a printed email.
“What now?” I asked.
He placed the page in front of me.
The Louisiana Emergency Resilience Office had issued an immediate administrative hold on Harborlight’s current storm-disbursement account.
Reason: equipment-chain discrepancies involving seven portable generators and two fuel deliveries.
My stomach dropped.
“This isn’t us.”
Anchor tapped the page.
“The disputed movements use Harborlight route codes.”
“I never moved generators.”
“Did your false runs use those codes?”
I read the list.
WFS-3.
Western fuel survey, corridor three.
The same code I had written on four of the fake manifests because it explained late hours and distance.
“Yes.”
Anchor leaned both hands on the desk.
“Tell me clearly. Did you steal equipment?”
“No.”
“Did you help Simone steal equipment?”
“No.”
“Did you know BaySpan was moving state generators?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation because this part of the truth was clean.
I had cheated.
I had lied.
I had falsified records.
I had never knowingly helped anyone steal emergency equipment.
Anchor studied me.
“Then explain why seven missing generators are attached to routes you invented.”
I stared at the page.
The dates matched.
Every one of them.
Simone had asked for proof that my alibis would hold. She had copies of the form structure, route codes, my signature, and the exact nights when no legitimate Harborlight movement had occurred.
My fake journeys had created empty spaces in the system.
Someone had filled those spaces with stolen equipment.
“Rhys?”
I looked toward the storm-dark window.
Delaney’s name appeared at the bottom of the administrative notice beneath the line identifying Harborlight’s responsible executive director.
My wife had been listed as the official accountable for records I had corrupted.
“I think Simone used my lies,” I said, “to build a theft trail straight to Delaney.”