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The Grade She Couldn't Forget

Chapter 4

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It was 2:00 AM on Sunday. The diner was closed tomorrow, and Emmett's shoulder had been popped back into place by a sympathetic ER nurse who knew better than to ask questions."Shift changes at two-thirty," I said, staring through a pair of battered binoculars I kept in my glovebox. "The graveyard security guard is a guy named Miller. He spends the first forty-five minutes of his shift in the gatehouse, watching old westerns on a portable TV. That gives us a window."Emmett looked at me, his face pale in the dashboard light. "You've been watching this place?""For six years," I admitted. "Every Sunday night. I told myself I was just keeping tabs. Looking for closure. But I think, deep down, I was always waiting for them to slip up."At 2:32 AM, the headlights of the outgoing guard's car swept past the main gate, heading toward town. A few moments later, the blue glow of a television screen illuminated the frosted glass of the guardhouse window."Let's go," I said.We slipped through a wash that ran parallel to the highway, the dried brush tearing at my jeans. I led Emmett to a blind spot along the western fence line—a patch where the floodlights didn't quite reach, obscured by a stand of dying cottonwoods. I pulled a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters from my duffel bag."Where did you even get those?" Emmett whispered."Hardware store across from the diner," I said, snapping the heavy steel links. "You'd be surprised what you can buy on a lunch break."We slipped through the gap, keeping low to the asphalt. The air smelled of diesel fuel, hot tires, and impending rain. Rows of idling tractor-trailers sat like sleeping beasts in the dark, their refrigerated units humming a low, mechanical lullaby."Which one is it?" I asked.Emmett scanned the rows of trailers. "Number 4092. It had a faded red mudflap on the rear left side, and a scrape down the passenger-side panel."We moved like ghosts between the monoliths of steel and aluminum. My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that felt identical to the night I'd lost Wyatt. I forced the memory down. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford right now."There," Emmett breathed, pointing.Trailer 4092 was hitched to a sleek, black Peterbilt cab, parked near the loading dock at the far end of the yard. But it wasn't empty. Two men were working by the light of a single halogen work lamp, operating a silent electric forklift. They were loading pallets of what looked like industrial fertilizer into the main bay."They're burying it," I whispered. "Putting legitimate freight on top to mask the weight and the smell of the compartment."
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