Chapter 4 - The Driver Who Never Came Home
Marcus Bell had worked for me for nine years.
He was fifty-two.
Married.
Two kids.
The kind of driver who arrived fifteen minutes early and complained when traffic was light because it meant he'd get home before dinner was ready.
Three months ago, Marcus disappeared.
His truck was found outside Laredo.
Empty.
No accident.
No blood.
No body.
At the time, local authorities called it an unexplained disappearance.
I paid for private investigators.
They found nothing.
Now Teresa was telling me he had been killed.
“Who told you?”
She wiped her eyes.
“I saw what happened.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“Where?”
She shook her head.
I walked toward her.
“Don't lie to me again.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You let me believe he was missing.”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
“By hiding a murder?”
She stood.
“Yes.”
The word hit me harder than a scream.
“Who did it?”
“I don't know their names.”
“But you know Daniel Crane.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“When did you meet him?”
“About six months ago.”
“Six months?”
She nodded.
“At first, he said he wanted information.”
“What information?”
“Your shipping routes.”
My jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“He said they were investigating theft.”
“Investigating?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“I didn't have a choice.”
“What did he threaten you with?”
She looked at me.
“Chloe.”
My blood went cold.
“What did he threaten?”
“The school. Her bus. Her teacher. The driver who takes her home.”
I couldn't speak.
Teresa pulled a second phone from her robe pocket.
She placed it on the table.
“Look.”
There were dozens of messages.
No names.
No numbers.
Only instructions.
Take photographs.
Copy schedules.
Watch the west warehouse.
Move the bags.
Make him believe he has to leave.
My stomach twisted.
“You were setting me up.”
“I was trying to make them think you had disappeared.”
“Why?”
“So they would stop looking for you.”
“That's insane.”
“I know.”
“Where were you sending me?”
She looked at me.
“I wasn't.”
The kitchen went quiet.
“What?”
“The bags were never for you to take.”
I stared at her.
“Then what were they for?”
She whispered,
“For whoever comes looking.”
I felt a shiver move through me.
“What does that mean?”
She reached into the pocket of her robe and handed me a small metal key.
“No. Listen to me.”
She pointed toward the front door.
“Tonight, you cannot go to the warehouse.”
“Why?”
“Because someone inside your company is waiting for you.”
“Who?”
She whispered,
“The person who has been ordering the black bags.”
My phone buzzed.
A message.
No number.
ONE OF THE BAGS IS NOT YOURS.
I looked toward the backyard.
Three black bags.
I went outside.
Luis was already there.
He opened them again.
We checked every compartment.
The first two were exactly as I remembered.
The third contained the passport, documents, watch, medicine…
And at the very bottom, hidden beneath a folded shirt, was a small envelope.
My name was written on it.
My handwriting.
I stared at it.
I hadn't written it.
Or at least I didn't remember writing it.
Inside was a photograph.
The picture was old.
Twenty-two years old.
It showed me standing outside my first warehouse.
Beside me was my father.
And behind us stood a younger man.
I recognized him immediately.
Daniel Crane.
May you like
But the real shock was the date written on the back.
Three days before my father died.
