At his kitchen table, Rowan unfolded his father’s statement to “any investigating authority.” Dates. Manifests. Routes that bent under pressure from owners who didn’t believe in safety unless it served profit.
Margins carried notes in smaller letters: “Duplicate files hidden separately—dock district vault.” “If you’re reading this, I couldn’t tell you myself.” “They are dangerous. The truth matters.”
Water damage blurred sentences but not intent. His father hadn’t vanished into bad luck; he had stepped into the path of men who hid storms on purpose.
Rowan packed the folder, the key, the medallion, and this time drove to the police without asking permission from fear.
