Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
KRISTIN
By the time the highway peeled off toward Everton, the bruise at my hip had found a heartbeat. Every pothole made it throb in time with my pulse, and the ring on my finger felt like a dare I’d said yes to at three in the morning.
I told Lincoln I needed to check on the warehouse. He offered to drive, but the last thing I needed was being with him in another confined space.
Everton wasn’t much: grain elevators, a diner that never changed its menu, a hardware store that carried everything from hay string to stroller wheels, and my warehouse sat two streets off Main, a rectangle of corrugated steel with my logo stenciled large enough to be seen from the highway.
Tin Star Barrel I counted on him for brute strength and his attention to detail.
It didn’t matter what numbers I shouted at him, he’d remembered everyone and made sure the books were balanced at the end of every day.
He was easy to have around, and this business thrived because of him.
“On it,” he said, already halfway to the back.
I headed for the office, Marnie on my heels. The security monitor sat in the corner, four squares. Back alley, clear. Warehouse floor, clear. Dock, clear. Entry, black screen, and a timestamp blinking zeroes. My skin crawled.
“We need a new system,” Marnie said, reading my mind. “One with redundant feeds and cloud backup. You keep saying, it’s a matter of time until something happens.”
“I know.” I pressed my fingertips to my temple. “I know.”
She hesitated, then veered into the practical. “Do you want me to start an inventory audit?”
“Full count on the high-value tack,” I said. “All sizes on the elastic breast collars. And pull every box you packed yesterday, we’ll open them and re-scan.”
“You think someone swapped something?”
“I think someone wants us to doubt everything.” My voice came out flatter than I meant. “Let’s not give them an easy win.”
Marnie nodded and slipped away, efficient as ever.
I closed the office door and slumped into my chair.
The ring on my finger glinted against the keyboard as I punched in codes.
I clicked through logs. Midnight to six, gap.
Six-oh-two, Marnie. Six-forty-one, Ty. Six-fifty-five, delivery bay camera hiccup, then back.
No motion alerts. No anomalies flagged. Whoever had been here knew precisely where to slip the knife.
My phone vibrated.
Lexie: How sore are you? You’d better not be at the warehouse alone.
Me: With Marnie and Ty. I’m fine.
Lexie: If anything is even slightly off, call me. And don’t talk to anyone official without me.
Me: I’m not calling anyone. I text back quickly.
Lexie: That’s not a flex, it’s a liability. I’m swinging by later with coffee when court’s over.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t promise, either.
By nine, the place was doing what it did best. The label printer sang. Ty carted boxes like a one-man parade. Marnie called out SKUs, and I pulled the correct sizes by muscle memory. The rhythm smoothed something raw in me.
“Uh, Kris?” Ty called from the hoodie pallet. “These feel light.”
“Light how?”
He hefted one. “Like two shirts lighter per box.”
I slit the tape on the nearest case. Sizes and colors were correct, but when I counted, we were short ten hoodies per case instead of twelve.
Multiply that by the pallet, and the number tightened in my gut.
Someone had skimmed. Not at the factory; I thoroughly vetted my manufacturer.
Somewhere between the freight hub and here, or, at here, under my nose.
Marnie swore softly. “We signed the bill of lading on count.”
“On pallet count,” I said. “Not unit.” Which meant that if we wanted to push it, it’d turn into a finger-pointing match between freight and fulfillment. Good luck with that.
The bell on the front door chimed. I straightened, hip complaining, and moved out to the retail floor.
A man wandered in like he was just killing time, mid-forties, ball cap with an oilfield logo, wind-burnt cheeks, hands that had seen real work.
He drifted past the headstalls and the barrel reins, pausing at the case of custom bits.
I clocked his boots first, new but scuffed like someone had dragged them on gravel for effect. The wrong kind of scuffs.
“Can I help you?” I asked, easy.
He tipped his chin at the bits. “You cut deals on those?”
“I cut deals if you buy six at full price,” I said. “And if I know your horse.”
His mouth twitched. “Fair.”
He didn’t look at my face long enough to register recognition, but not enough to get caught in the gaze.
The way men who don’t want to be remembered glance.
He picked up a set of barrel reins, thumbed the braiding, and set them down again.
“Busy this morning?” he asked casually, gaze flicking past me toward the office corridor.
“Nothing’s slow around here. Can I help you find something?”
He smiled like I’d just told him a secret, then shook his head. “Just looking.” He wandered another aisle, then left without buying a thing. When the door shut, the bell jangled too long, like someone had pulled it hard on purpose.
I watched the glass for his reflection. He didn’t go to a truck parked out front. He walked down the block and climbed into an older white dually idling in the shade, windows tinted darker than they should’ve been. It didn’t pull out.
Heat slid under my skin. I went back to the office and checked the alley feed. Rear lot, empty. Side street camera, grainy, low angle, enough to make out the taillights and nothing else. I jotted the partial plate I could see. Useless without a favor or a warrant.
At ten, Clay backed his freight rig to the dock, hopped out with his clipboard and his hundred-watt grin. “Morning, boss. Weather says we’ve got flurries by two, so I’m trying to earn my gold star early.”
“Earn it by telling me why we’re short ten per case on the Wrangelrs,” I said.
His smile slipped. “We pulled those direct from the hub yesterday.”
“On pallet count.”
“On pallet count,” he admitted, wincing. “You want me to raise hell?”
I should have said yes. I should have demanded a tracing ticket and every boring piece of paper that went with it. Instead, I heard my own voice come out carefully. “Flag it. Quietly. And if you hear anything weird on the driver channel, call me, not the group text.”
Clay studied me. “Trouble?”
“Just don’t want a mess on socials,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. It also wasn’t the truth.