Chapter 1 - The Picture He Was Afraid to Touch
"Pick it up," the man in the thousand-dollar suit ordered. "And this time, don't make me ask twice."
The photograph lay between his polished shoes and my scuffed work boots. I was down on one knee in Aisle Seventeen, one hand braced against the concrete, the other gripping a picture I hadn't seen in twenty-two years. Overhead, a forklift beeped. Somewhere behind the towering shelves, fifty employees pretended not to hear our new owner's voice.
My name is Elena Torres. I was thirty-one, working the night shift at Bellwether Distribution, and until that morning I had believed my mother died in a highway accident when I was nine.
The woman in the photograph was my mother. She stood outside this very warehouse, holding a little girl with dark braids. Me. Beside her stood a silver-haired man whose face had aged but whose ice-blue eyes were unmistakable.
The man standing over me.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He stretched out a thick hand, palm up. "That belongs to company property."
"It's a photograph of my mother."
His jaw hardened. "You're mistaken."
"Her name was Sofia Torres. I know her face. And that's you."
For one second, his expression cracked. Fear flashed underneath the anger, fast and raw. Then he glanced toward the security camera and raised his voice.
"This employee was caught removing documents from a restricted shipment. Security, escort her out."
I stood up so quickly that he took a step back. "You planted this in a shipment marked for destruction. Why?"
Two guards appeared at the end of the aisle. My supervisor, Marcus Vale, followed them, his eyes fixed on the picture. I expected him to look confused. Instead, he looked like someone who had just seen a dead person walk into the room.
"Elena," Marcus whispered, "put the picture down."
"Tell me what this is."
The old man leaned close enough for me to smell peppermint on his breath. "Your mother had the same stubborn streak. Look where it got her."
The guards moved toward me. I backed away, photograph held tight against my chest. Then my phone vibrated inside my vest. One new message, from a number with no name.
DON'T TRUST MARCUS. YOUR MOTHER DIDN'T DIE IN THE ACCIDENT.
May you like
I lifted my eyes toward the silver-haired man. He was no longer looking at me.
He was staring at the phone in my hand.
