Chapter 3 #3
This is bigger than I thought. Bigger than simple smuggling or even organized crime.
This is systematic record manipulation suggesting an operation with resources and connections to alter official documentation.
The kind of thing that requires money, expertise, and protection from authorities who should be investigating instead of enabling.
My predecessor is gone. Case files went missing. Everyone treats my presence like an invasion rather than law enforcement doing their job.
Stormhaven has a corruption problem, and it goes deeper than one criminal operating at the docks.
I'm focused on the records and almost miss the sound. A soft scrape comes from the direction of the evidence room, and it's barely audible. I freeze, and my hand automatically goes to the service weapon at my hip.
The station should be empty. Rhona went out, and I'm alone, or I should be, unless someone entered while I was absorbed in documentation.
I move silently toward the back, and years of tactical training make my steps soundless on worn linoleum. The evidence room door stands slightly ajar, and that's not how I left it. Someone is inside and going through materials that should be locked and secured.
I draw my weapon and keep it low and ready as I approach. It's standard procedure for potential threat situations. I announce presence, order compliance, and use force only if necessary.
"Police! Come out with your hands visible!"
The sounds stop immediately. For several heartbeats, nothing happens, and then Rhona emerges from the evidence room with her hands raised but her expression calm.
"Just organizing files," she says, and her voice is level. "Didn't mean to startle you."
I don't lower my weapon and study her face for tells. "The evidence room was locked. How did you get in?"
"I have keys." She nods toward the ring hanging from her belt. "Been working here longer than you've been alive, Chief. I know where everything is."
"And you decided to organize evidence without informing your superior officer?" My tone stays professional, but suspicion coils in my gut. "That's not proper procedure."
"Island police work differently than Glasgow." Rhona's expression doesn't change, but something hardens in her gaze. "We handle things our own way here. Maybe you should learn that before you go pointing guns at people trying to help."
She's not wrong about the weapon being excessive for this situation, but her explanation doesn't sit right.
Evidence rooms don't get organized spontaneously.
People don't access restricted areas without notification unless they're hiding something.
And someone's been covering tracks by removing Murdoch's working files on unusual cargo.
I lower the gun but don't holster it yet. "What files were you organizing, specifically?"
"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. I scan 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.
My training recognizes the wrongness before my conscious mind catches up.
There are small things, barely noticeable unless you're paying attention.
The mail on the entry table sits at a slightly different angle, and my jacket hangs on the hook with the collar folded wrong.
The books on the shelf stand in an order I didn't leave them.
Someone's been inside my home.
My hand goes to my weapon as I clear each room methodically, checking closets and behind furniture for intruders who might still be present. I find nothing. Whoever entered is long gone, but they left evidence of their presence in subtle disarray that says this was meant to be noticed.
Nothing appears stolen, and the electronics remain untouched.
The valuables are unmoved, and the personal items are exactly where they belong aside from those small tells indicating search and invasion.
This wasn't robbery. This was a message.
We know where you live, and we can reach you anywhere.
Back off, or next time won't be so polite.
I should call for backup and report the break-in and request increased patrols. I should demonstrate that threatening a police officer brings consequences.
But who would I call? Rhona, who might be involved? MacKinnon, who clearly protects local criminals? The brotherhood that O'Donnell belongs to, whatever the hell that organization actually is?
I'm alone in a hostile environment with no allies and with evidence that someone considers me enough of a threat to violate my home.
Good.
If they're scared enough to send warnings, I'm getting close to something important.
If they're worried about my investigation, then my investigation is heading in the right direction.
Intimidation only works on people who scare easily, and I didn't survive Glasgow's organized crime division by backing down when things got violent.
I double-check all the locks and wedge a chair under the door handle for additional security and set my phone to record any sounds during the night.
Then I pull out my laptop and continue documenting evidence while building the case that will eventually take down whoever runs this trafficking operation.
The Cork children's faces haunt me as I work. There are twelve kids who should be safe at home, and their parents probably still hope they'll come back. I have to find out what happened to them. And regardless of what I find, I need to make those who are responsible pay for it.
O'Donnell's face keeps appearing in my mind too. The way he moved with all that predatory grace and casual menace keeps replaying. The warnings he gave sounded almost like genuine concern beneath the intimidation.
He's involved; he has to be. Everything points to him as a key player in whatever operation uses Stormhaven's harbor, but something about him doesn't fit the profile.
The intelligence shows in his gaze, and the calculation suggests he thinks several moves ahead.
And the way he vanished, twice now, with impossible speed—there's no logical explanation for that.
There's more happening on this island than trafficking, and it's more than I understand or can explain with standard police work.
Whatever O'Donnell is involved in, and whatever makes him capable of impossible things, I think the brotherhood is involved too.
So is the corruption protecting these operations, and so are those twelve children from Cork.
I'll figure this out. Build the case piece by piece until the charges stick. Even if part of me can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me—like I'm prey and threat all at once, like whatever pulls me toward him is pulling him toward me just as hard.
I close my laptop and check the locks again. Sleep won't come easily tonight, not with adrenaline still humming through me. Tomorrow I'll dig deeper. Find more evidence. Build the case that brings them all down.
They wanted to scare me into backing off. Probably think their warning worked, that I'll pack up and run back to Glasgow like Murdoch probably wanted to before his "accident."
I won't.
I pull up the Cork manifest one more time, and the numbers burn into my vision. There are twelve children and twelve "units of livestock." I slam the laptop shut.
Those children deserve better than a cop who scares easily. So does this island.
Tomorrow I'll start digging into this brotherhood. Figure out who the hell O'Donnell really is. And find out who's protecting the bastards shipping children like cargo.
They made a mistake breaking into my home tonight. They should have just killed me when they had the chance.