Chapter 105 The Man at the Warehouse
Cole watched Daniel Cross for three days before returning to the cottage. He arrived on a Thursday evening as the last light drained from the sky. Damian and I sat at the kitchen table, a forgotten pot of tea between us. Outside, the dogwood branches were almost bare, most of their white petals already scattered across the grass. One last petal clung to the screen door, fluttering in the breeze.
Cole pulled out a chair and sat down without ceremony. “He's careful,” he said. “Doesn't use his real name on any social platform. His wife has no online presence. Their children have no digital footprint at all. No school photos, no birthday announcements.”
Damian shrugged. “Privacy isn't a crime. Some people prefer to stay offline.”
“True. But most people leave some trace. A comment here, a like there. He leaves absolutely nothing. No crumbs.”
Kira leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “What about his job?”
Cole flipped open a small notebook. “Night shift at a shipping warehouse on the south side. He's worked there for seven years. No disciplinary issues. Coworkers describe him as quiet, keeps to himself. He doesn't attend after‑work gatherings, never talks about his family, and brings his own lunch every day.”
“Any connection to our family?”
“None that I've found yet. But I discovered something in his car.” He reached into his jacket and placed a photograph on the table. The image was grainy, shot through a car window at dusk. On the passenger seat sat a stack of papers, their edges visible.
Damian leaned in. “What are those?”
“Printouts of your memoir. The book. Several passages are highlighted in yellow. Some pages have handwritten notes in the margins. Very small, cramped handwriting.”
My stomach tightened. “He's been reading about us. Studying our history.”
“More than studying. The highlighted sections include descriptions of the yellow room, the paper stars, and the locket. These are personal details that never appeared in any public summary.”
The next morning, Damian decided he needed to see Daniel Cross with his own eyes. I insisted on coming along. We drove to the warehouse district, where gray concrete buildings lined the streets behind chain‑link fences. Trucks rumbled in and out of loading docks. The air smelled of diesel exhaust and damp cardboard.
We parked across the street, engine off, windows cracked open. “What if he notices us?” I asked.
“Then he'll know we're aware of him. That's not necessarily a bad thing.”
At exactly 4:00 PM, a man emerged from the side door. Daniel Cross. He was of medium height, with brown hair and forgettable features. He wore a faded work jacket with a company patch on the sleeve. He lit a cigarette and stared up at the overcast sky, not focusing on anything in particular.
Damian gripped the steering wheel. “He looks completely ordinary.”
“That's what makes him unsettling. He could disappear into any crowd.”
Cross finished his cigarette, flicked the stub into a puddle, and walked to his sedan. The car was clean but clearly older. He never once glanced in our direction.
Damian reached for the ignition. “Should we follow him?”
“No. Kira's team is already tracking him. Let them do their job.”
That evening, Kira called with an update. Her voice was brisk and professional.
“He drove straight home. Stopped for takeout at a Chinese restaurant around 6:30. Went inside. The lights went out at eleven.”
“No visitors?”
“None. But his wife made a call from their landline to a number registered to a PO box in Nevada.”
“Can you trace the owner?”
“The PO box is rented by a shell company. Layers of registration. It will take time to untangle.”
Damian rubbed his tired eyes. “This is moving too slowly.”
“These things move at their own pace. We're dealing with someone who knows how to stay hidden.”
The next morning, Leo arrived with his laptop, dark circles under his eyes from staying up late. He had been digging through old records.
“I found something,” he said, sitting down at the table without waiting. “Margaret Cross—Eleanor's sister—had a major dispute with her mother over a family trust. The mother cut her off completely. No inheritance, no contact, no mention in the will.”
He turned the screen toward us. A faded newspaper clipping from 1972 appeared, the headline barely readable.
Local Woman Alleges Secret Trust Fund.
“Margaret sued. She claimed her mother had hidden a substantial bank account. The case went nowhere. The court sealed the records.”
Damian leaned forward. “What happened to her after the lawsuit?”
“She moved out of state. Changed her last name. But some of her children kept the Cross name and stayed in the area.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Did the trust fund ever surface?”
“Not in any public filing. But the bank account referenced in the lawsuit still exists. It's been dormant for decades. No activity. No claims.”
“Until now?” Damian asked.
Leo shrugged. “Maybe. Someone with access to old family documents could attempt to revive it.”
Kira, who had been listening from the doorway, spoke up. “Money is a powerful motivator. Stronger than revenge.”
Damian nodded slowly. “So Daniel Cross might not want to harm us. He might want what he believes is rightfully his.”
“Or both,” I said. “Money and vengeance often go hand in hand.”
Cole returned that evening with another photograph. This one was sharper, taken from a different angle. Daniel Cross stood outside the warehouse, speaking with a man in a dark suit. The stranger's face was partially hidden by a raised collar.
“Who is that?” Damian asked.
“Not identified yet. But he's met Cross at the warehouse three times this week. Same suit, same car. Always leaves before we can get a clear license plate.”
Kira studied the image. “This is bigger than one disgruntled relative. There's coordination here. Planning.”
“What do we do?”
“We keep watching. We keep the children close. And we find out who the man in the suit is.”