I took out my pocket ruler, laid it against the print, and set my phone on the desk beside it. With the camera held flat and steady six inches above the ledger, I photographed the entire page: the date, the vehicle number, the ink smudge, the time stamp, and the inventory control sticker from the tire warehouse.
Then I turned the page to the security gate ledger Frank kept in the companion green binder. Thursday, 1:45 PM entry: Hayes, M. – Arrived via South Access. Thursday, 2:40 PM entry: Hayes, M. – Cleared gate with new rubber.
Two separate physical logs, signed and witnessed seventy miles south of the Miller farm at the exact moment Preston’s forged soil assessment claimed I was standing on the riverbank taking silt cores.
I slid the heavy binders into the canvas tool bag Frank kept hanging by the door, along with the half-used pad of purple ink. I wasn't going to leave the books where an intern could toss them into the back of a company trunk under the cover of an audit. If Preston wanted these pages, he would have to explain on an official requisition form why a regional manager was personally impounding maintenance logs in the middle of a Friday night.
As I reached for the doorknob, the yellow yard lights outside cut through the trailer's frosted blinds, followed by the sudden sweep of twin high beams crossing the wall.
An engine idled outside the trailer steps.
I stayed low beneath the counter, my fingers closing around the cold brass key. Through the slit in the aluminum blinds, I saw the front bumper of the county sedan. The intern hadn't waited for the six o’clock watchman after all. He had driven through the perimeter gap by the wash rack, following the fresh tire tracks I had left in the mud.
The sedan's driver door swung open. A young man in a tan trench coat stepped out, holding an umbrella in one hand and a clipboard wrapped in clear plastic in the other. He didn't look like an investigator. He looked twenty-four, nervous, his eyes darting toward the dark corners of the yard as he bounded up the wooden stairs of the trailer.
His key scraped against the brass deadbolt lock.
The deadbolt turned, but the door didn't open. The interior security latch—the heavy steel drop-bar Frank used when he took his midnight inventory naps—was firmly dropped into its welded steel brackets.
The intern rattled the handle, his breath fogging against the glass pane. "Frank?" he called out, his voice thin against the sound of falling water. "Mr. Vance? It's Kevin from executive acquisitions. Preston said you'd leave the cabinet open."
I didn't move. I stood in the dark behind the plywood partition, holding the canvas bag against my chest, watching his silhouette press against the wire glass. He tried the knob twice more, kicked the bottom riser in frustration, and pulled a phone from his pocket.
The glow illuminated his sharp, anxious face as he dialed.
Through the thin aluminum door skin, every word carried clearly over the rain.
"Preston? It's Kevin. The Pine Ridge office is deadbolted from the inside. There's no night man at the gate, but there's fresh mud on the back gravel ramp. Somebody's already been through here."
There was a long pause, filled only with the faint, metallic crackle of the earpiece. The voice on the other end was too low to make out words, but the cadence was rapid, clipped, and furious.
"No, sir," the intern said quickly, pulling the umbrella lower against the wind. "I didn't see a car. But the chain on the south auxiliary gate was hanging open. If Marcus is down here, he knows where the paper copies are. What do you want me to do if he tries to leave?"
Another brief pause. The intern’s posture stiffened, his fingers tightening on the umbrella handle until his knuckles showed white under the halogen glare.
"Understood," Kevin said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its nervousness and turning flat. "I'll park across the culvert. He isn't getting that binder back to the courthouse."