18- Breaking into the cannery (i)

18- Breaking into the cannery (i)
CLAIRE

I should’ve walked away. Any sane person would’ve. But sanity was a currency I stopped carrying a long time ago.

The spiral burned in my head. And the paper—A.P.—it was worse. A clue dangled just far enough to keep me hungry. They knew I’d bite. They wanted me gnawing at it like a dog at a bone.

And they were right.

I slid the paper into my pocket and tried to breathe through the knot in my chest. I felt like a cutout figure in a diorama— left in place while someone outside the glass watched.

I hated that feeling.

Still, my hands moved on instinct. Primer can. Duct tape. Old tarp. I patched the scar just enough to dull the spiral’s glare, even though the cover-up looked ridiculous. A half-sick disguise.

Low tide wasn’t far off. I checked my watch. If I left now, I could hit the cannery just as the water dropped, slip inside without wading waist-deep through black water.

I told myself that was the reason to go. But the truth was simpler: I wanted in.

The drive down to the waterfront was quiet, too quiet. Grayhaven’s streets at night were very empty.

The cannery sat at the end of a thin strip of land ,it had a big rusting shape of steel, with a roof sagging in places. The old sign once said ROTARY SEAFOODS, but most of the letters were gone. Now it just read ROT… SEAFO… like the name itself was rotting away.

Two blocks away, I switched off my headlights and rolled the rest of the way in the dim fog.

The fence stood there with the chain-link bent in places, but it was still standing. I found the gap Briggs had muttered about and slipped through.

The air hit me right away. It smelled of salt, but also oil, droppings, and old rot.

I knelt near the service door. That was when I noticed the marks.

Boot prints. Very clear and sharp. Bigger than mine and pressed deeper into the ground. Someone else had been here very recently. maybe minutes ago.

Next to them ran a drag mark through the mud. Rope, I guessed. I checked under a broken pallet and found it—a coil of rope with a county tag still fixed to it..

That didn’t belong here. Not in a rotting cannery. Someone had brought it, someone who had access to official stores.

I snapped a photo, quick and silent. Evidence. Proof. But my gut already knew: this wasn’t some careless theft. This was sanctioned. County property meant county hands, or at least someone with the keys.

And just beside it, shoved halfway under a pallet, I found something worse.

A child’s sneaker. My stomach dropped

What was a kid’s shoe doing here?

It had once been pink, but the color had faded. Bits of glitter still clung to the laces. It was tiny—maybe for a six- or seven-year-old. There was no reason it should be under a pallet in an abandoned cannery..

It sat like someone had pushed it there, hidden it, but not well enough.

I felt sick at the sight in front of me. If kids were involved, then this wasn’t just crime—it was something far worse.

In situations like this You can tell yourself to stay detached, to treat everything like evidence, but that line breaks when children are pulled in.

A little sneaker meant innocence swallowed by whatever was happening here.It meant the rules were gone. The stakes weren’t just high—they were unforgivable.

I stood too quickly, heart hammering. Took another photo. Forced myself to keep moving.

I glanced around for something to use. That’s when I spotted a rusted pry bar lying nearby some scrap

I slid the bar under the hasp and pushed slowly. One thing I was sure of,was that : Old wood doesn’t hold new screws well. It creaked, cracked, then finally gave way. The lock finally came loose..

I stepped in and shut the door softly behind me. The warehouse spread out wide. Tarps covered pallets and moved slightly in the draft. I kept my flashlight low, just enough to see where I was walking.

The footprints showed on the concrete too, they were still damp,leading deeper inside. I followed them, being careful where I stepped, until I came to stacks of crates.

Each one was marked with white triangles, chalk rubbed across the wood. Some marks were sharp and others were fading.

That was when it hit me. Briggs had mentioned these same crates.That they were

I set my light down low and ran my hand across the nearest lid. The wood felt swollen , they were rough with age. I tried the edge, pressing my fingers under the seam, but the lid wouldn’t move.

It was stuck. I looked around for a crowbar or a loose plank, anything I could use, but nothing was close. My pry bar was back at the door. It was too risky to go back and get it.

I thought about forcing it, just to see what was inside, but then stopped myself. Forcing the crate would leave marks. Splinters, scratches, something that would prove I’d been here. Whoever was using this place—they would know.