19- Breaking into the cannery (ii)

19- Breaking into the cannery (ii)
CLAIRE

So I pulled my hands back, wiping the dust on my jeans. It was better to leave it untouched. Better to pretend I’d never stood in front of it at all.

Still, the sight of those crates made something tighten in my chest. I felt extremely tense, And yet—God help me—I felt alive. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this until now.

The quiet pressing in, the kind of quiet that makes your own heartbeat sound too loud. The waiting and the tension. This was the rhythm of the job of a cop, the one I had walked away from when I turned in my badge.

It was dangerous. It was stupid. It was reckless.

And it felt like home.

At the far end of the warehouse, I saw a small office crouched in the corner like it was hiding. The windows were coated in grime,it was thick enough to block the view inside. A plain knob sat on the door. I tried opening it but it was locked.

I let out a slow breath, pulled the hairpin from my hair. Old habits die hard. I bent it between my fingers until it gave the right shape. Then I slid it into the keyhole.

I worked calmly, Until the pins inside shifted, one by one, until I felt the last one fall.The latch gave wayv, and the knob turned under my hand.

Inside, the air smelled old—paper dust mixed with the bitter trace of coffee long gone bad. A desk sat in the middle, a rusted file cabinet leaned in the corner.

My flashlight caught the desk drawers. I crouched, tried the first one. Locked. I pulled at the others—same story. All sealed. I didn’t want to smash them open and make noise. I needed to leave no trace.

I pulled a hairpin from my pocket, bent it, and slid it into the lock. The metal clicked softly as I worked it. A moment later, one of the drawers gave way with a small snap.

I opened it slowly.

Inside lay a thick ledger,it was bound in worn cloth. Its edges were frayed, but the cover was clean. No dust at all.

Someone had used it not long ago.

Columns. Dates. Tides. Notes of night runs,they were all very precise. And in the margins, initials. Over and over again.

A.P.
D.K.
L.C.

They were always repeated. Always in rotation. Almost like a system or a code.

I turned page after page. The pattern held. Some entries marked with the same white triangle I’d seen chalked on the crates. Others only a dash.

A chill rolled down my spine. This was bookkeeping. Organized and Regular. And those initials weren’t abstract—they were people.

I flipped to the back cover. Something was taped there.

A Polaroid which had faded to sepia. Date scrawled: 1988. An awards banquet sigcheap trophies lined up on a white cloth. Name cards folded like tents.

Only one was legible.

ARLEN PIKE.

A.P.

My throat tightened. I whispered it aloud just to hear how it sounded in the dark. Arlen Pike. The same initials from the paper on my windshield. The same A.P. carved into these ledgers of night runs.

A.P. The man behind the initials wasn’t just some faceless ghost. He had been someone who stood in the open once, who had shaken hands at ceremonies, who had smiled for cameras

But D.K. and L.C.—they remained shadows. Initials without anchors. Were they dockhands? Clerks? Cops who sold their loyalty for a cut? The ledger didn’t say. It only laid their letters down like fence posts marking territory in the dark.

I knew I could take the ledger. I could slip the Polaroid into my pocket, walk out with something solid in my hands. But that would’ve been a rookie move. The second they came back here, they’d know someone had been digging. And then the game would change.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the ledger, then another of the Polaroid. Not evidence that would stand in a courtroom—hell, not even close. Just shadows of evidence. Hints. But sometimes hints were all you had until you could dig deeper.

I slid the ledger back the way I’d found it, smoothing the edge of the cloth cover like I’d never touched it. I pressed the Polaroid flat against the inside of the back cover and closed it carefully. No gaps, no trace.

My chest felt tight. Because the truth was simple: this wasn’t enough. A.P., D.K., L.C.—initials and a photo of a banquet weren’t going to prove a damn thing. But it was enough to tell me one thing with certainty—this murder wasn’t random, and it wasn’t new. It had history. Years of it.

I hated leaving it all behind. Hated walking away empty-handed. But staying longer would’ve been worse.

Still at least I had made some progress.
In my pocket, the torn paper dug into my thigh: NIGHT USE. Supervisor: A.P.

Now I had a name to match the initials. Arlen Pike.

But D.K. and L.C.—they were still waiting in the dark.

And the ledger told me one thing clearly: whoever they were, they weren’t alone.

So I slipped the drawer shut until the lock caught again, stood, and backed toward the door. My hand hovered over the knob. One last glance at the office.

If I came back, I’d need more than a phone and a hairpin to get more evidence.