Chapter 9 - The Warehouse Record
The taxi dropped us off two blocks away from the brick medical supply warehouse on Lake Street. The afternoon sky was overcast, casting a gray, industrial shadow across the deserted loading docks and rusted iron fire escapes. I had strapped Theodore tightly into his front baby carrier, wrapped in a heavy winter jacket, with the manila envelope securely zipped inside an interior coat pocket.
The building looked like an abandoned storage facility from the outside, but through the reinforced glass of the side entrance, I could see the sterile fluorescent lighting of a modern logistics and distribution office.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The rush of air conditioning hit my face, accompanied by the low hum of refrigeration units in the back.
A young man in a blue logistics polo was sitting behind a high reception desk, staring intently at his computer monitor. He looked up as the bell above the door chimed.
“Can I help you, ma'am? Shipping and receiving is around the back.”
I walked up to the counter, keeping my posture straight and my face calm despite the adrenaline pounding in my veins. “I’m looking for Dr. Samuel Wallace’s account records. I’m an assistant from Winslow Medical Holdings, and there’s an urgent discrepancy in the delivery logs for the Pancuronium shipments.”
The clerk frowned, leaning back in his chair. “Winslow Medical? We don't usually deal with assistants for those restricted neurotoxin logs. Dr. Wallace handles those personally.”
“I know he does,” I said, putting a firm, authoritative edge into my voice. “That’s why he sent me. The corporate audit committee is reviewing all pharmaceutical expenditures for the estate this afternoon, and if those delivery receipts aren't countersigned by five o'clock, the entire account gets frozen. Do you want to explain to Mr. Christopher Winslow why his family’s medical supply account was suspended because you wouldn't show me a ledger?”
The mention of Christopher Winslow’s name—and the implicit threat of corporate fallout—did the trick. The clerk’s expression flickered with nervous hesitation. Winslow money carried weight in this city, even down in the industrial supply chain.
“Hold on,” the clerk muttered, turning back to his terminal. He clicked through a series of internal databases, typing furiously with two fingers. “Alright, look. I can’t print the internal client notes, but I can show you the log for the last quarterly refill.”
He swung the monitor slightly toward me.
I scanned the rows of data. Dates, batch numbers, recipient signatures, and invoice amounts. My eyes locked onto the signature line for the most recent delivery three days ago.
It wasn't Dr. Wallace’s signature.
The name scrawled across the digital pad was sleek, sharp, and unmistakably feminine.
Elena Winslow.
The clerk kept talking, oblivious to the earthquake happening behind my eyes. “See? Signed for right here at our loading dock by a family representative holding the proper corporate credentials. So there’s no discrepancy—”
“Thank you,” I interrupted, my voice trembling slightly. “That’s all I needed to see.”
I turned away from the desk before he could see the shock draining the color from my face.
It wasn't just Wallace executing the orders while Elena looked on with detached indifference. Elena herself was directly managing the supply chain of the poison being used to murder her brother. She hadn't just hired a doctor to do her dirty work; she was an active, hands-on participant in the systematic execution of the head of the Winslow family.
I walked out of the warehouse into the cold Chicago air, Theodore sleeping peacefully against my chest, completely unaware of the deadly web we were standing inside.
May you like
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a text message from an unsaved number—Sarah.
Nora, get back to the mansion immediately. Christopher just received a call from the estate manager. They discovered the secret compartment in Raymond’s room is empty. They know someone took the files.
