Chapter 45 Off the Record
Rowan
I stare at my phone longer than I should.
Violet’s message sits unread at the top of the screen—not because I haven’t seen it, but because I know if I answer, I’ll anchor myself back to the office. To her. To normalcy.
And nothing about today is normal.
I lock the phone and slip it into my jacket just as the port authority advisor clears his throat.
He’s sweating.
Not from heat—the room is cold, aggressively so—but from the knowledge that this conversation never officially happened.
We aren’t in his real office. That would require forms. Logs. Justification.
Instead, we’re in a forgotten side room that smells like mildew and old paper, a flickering fluorescent light buzzing above us like it’s barely hanging on.
He keeps glancing at the door.
“You understand,” he says carefully, “that this isn’t something I normally—”
“I understand,” I interrupt calmly. “You don’t do this. You don’t know me. And this room doesn’t exist.”
His shoulders loosen by a fraction.
Money sits on the desk between us—not waved, not offered, just present. A reminder. A language we both speak fluently.
He swallows and turns back to the computer. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Dock access exceptions,” I say. “Cash payments. Any record that doesn’t make sense on paper.”
A humorless laugh slips out of him. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m looking for the name Evan Pierce.”
His fingers hesitate over the keyboard.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
He exhales slowly. “You’re not the first person to ask about him.”
That makes my jaw tighten. “Who else asked?”
He shakes his head immediately. “I can’t—”
I slide another stack of bills forward, not breaking eye contact.
His gaze drops.
Then he sighs. “Vice. Once. A while back. Didn’t stick.”
I don’t comment.
He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick binder—yellowed pages, handwritten notes, margins filled with codes that don’t appear in any official training manual.
“This isn’t digital,” he mutters. “For a reason.”
He flips pages quickly, then slower.
Stops.
“There,” he says, tapping the paper like it might burn him.
I lean in.
Evan Pierce.
More than one entry.
“Why is his name here more than once?” I ask.
The advisor doesn’t look at me. “Because he paid more than once.”
“For what?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Access. Time. Silence.”
I flip the page myself.
More entries.
Same vessel.
Same pattern.
I trace my finger along the margin until I find it.
TESLA-LE — Vessel 69849.
“Tell me about that boat,” I say.
His mouth tightens. “You don’t want to know.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
He rubs his face. “Comes in four times a week. Always clears fast. Always docks in the same area. Always someone higher up telling us to move along.”
“Who?”
He laughs softly, bitter. “If I knew that, I’d already be gone.”
“How much was Evan paying?” I press.
He finally looks at me. “Enough that someone noticed when he stopped.”
That lands hard.
“When did he stop?” I ask.
The advisor checks the log. “About a week after he was reported missing.”
My pulse ticks once.
A week.
I take out my phone and photograph every page Evan’s name appears on.
The advisor turns away, suddenly interested in the wall.
“Cameras,” I say. “That dock.”
He sighs. “Yeah. But the quality—”
“I don’t care,” I cut in. “Pull them up.”
He does, fingers moving faster now, nervous energy taking over.
Multiple feeds load.
Static. Grain. Shadows.
“Go back,” I say. “Two weeks ago. Night shift.”
He scrolls.
I watch timestamps roll past until something tightens in my chest.
“Stop.”
He freezes the frame.
There—under harsh dock lights—is Evan.
Alive.
Talking to someone just off-camera.
I step closer, reaching for the mouse without asking. The advisor lets me.
I rewind.
Zoom in.
The footage is shit, but Evan’s face is unmistakable. Tense. Focused. Not relaxed.
“Who’s that with him?” I ask.
The advisor squints. “Hard to tell. That angle’s always been a problem.”
They talk—no sound, just gestures.
Evan points toward the warehouse.
They walk inside.
I don’t need to see what happens next.
I already know.
I press record on my phone, capturing the footage straight from the screen.
The advisor clears his throat. “You shouldn’t—”
“I’m already here,” I reply evenly.
I finish recording and slide several hundred across the desk.
He doesn’t touch it until I’m already standing.
Outside, the dock air is thick—salt, oil, rust.
I breathe it in slowly.
Evan Pierce wasn’t just unlucky.
He was entangled.
And someone decided he knew too much—or stopped being useful.
My phone buzzes.
Theo.
Theo: First meeting didn’t explode. She negotiated. They listened. Old bastard actually sat down.
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding finally leaves me.
Of course she did.
Me: Good.
My thumb hovers over Violet’s name again.
I read her message this time.
Professional. Calm. Focused.
She’s holding the line while I’m standing in the rot underneath it.
I could answer.
I should.
But if I do, I won’t stop.
And right now, I need to finish tearing this open.
I lock the phone.
Not today.
Today is for truth.
Even if it burns everything that comes with it.
I’m halfway into the backseat when my phone vibrates again.
Theo.
I don’t sit down yet. One hand grips the door frame, the other pulls the phone free as rain starts to mist across the docks.
Theo: Lobby group’s being assholes.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
That could mean anything. Too vague. Too casual.
My jaw tightens.
Me: Is Violet okay?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then—
A fucking thumbs up.
I exhale sharply through my nose. “You have got to be kidding me.”