Chapter 3 - The WarehouseBy midnight, Mercer Construction's oldest warehouse was surrounded by police vehicles.
Rain hammered the corrugated metal roof.
David stood behind the police tape, staring at the machinery inside.
The concrete mixer sat beneath a broken fluorescent light.
Rust covered its frame.
But one section looked disturbingly clean.
Recently used.
Detective Alvarez approached.
“Your security system was disabled three hours ago.”
David looked at him.
“By whom?”
“Your security credentials.”
David's heart sank.
“Mine?”
“Your executive access code.”
“I was at the hospital.”
“I know.”
“So someone has my credentials.”
“Or someone inside your company has been using them.”
David looked through the warehouse window.
The answer was becoming obvious.
Voss.
Martin Voss.
He reached for his phone.
“I’m calling him.”
Alvarez stopped him.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s involved, you just warned him.”
David stared at the detective.
“Then what do we do?”
“We watch.”
Two officers entered the warehouse.
A few seconds later, one shouted.
“Detective!”
Alvarez moved quickly.
David followed.
Behind the concrete mixer was a steel cabinet.
Inside were construction invoices.
Dozens of them.
All fake.
Payments had been made to shell companies over several years.
David picked up a document.
His company logo was printed at the top.
But the signature wasn't his.
Alvarez took it.
“Forgery.”
David flipped through the pages.
Then stopped.
A transfer for $250,000.
Recipient:
Voss Development Holdings.
David stared.
“Martin Voss owns this company.”
“Yes.”
“And I authorized this?”
“According to the paperwork.”
David shook his head.
“I never saw this.”
Alvarez looked at him.
“Then someone has been stealing from you.”
A noise came from the far side of the warehouse.
Both men froze.
A metal door slammed.
“Police!”
Footsteps exploded across the concrete.
Officers chased the figure through the darkness.
David watched helplessly.
Then came a crash.
Silence.
An officer returned.
“Lost him.”
But he held something.
A torn black jacket.
And a photograph.
David took the photograph.
It showed Sarah.
Standing beside Martin Voss.
But the photograph wasn't recent.
It was dated twelve years earlier.
The year before Sarah and David were married.
David stared at his wife's face.
She looked happy.
Young.
Alive.
And standing beside a man David had believed he met only years later.
He turned the photograph over.
Written on the back were four words.
She remembers everything.
David's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A distorted voice whispered:
“You should have left the wall alone.”
David's blood ran cold.
“Who are you?”
“You've already lost once.”
“Where is Voss?”
A soft laugh.
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
The voice became almost gentle.
“Ask your wife why she married you.”
The line went dead.
David slowly lowered the phone.
May you like
For the first time that night, fear wasn't about what Eleanor had done.
It was about what Sarah had never told him.
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