Chapter 7 - The Secret Compartment
The rain stopped around noon, leaving behind an oppressive, cold mist that hung over the industrial parks of west Charlotte.
I didn't call Diane. I called Claire.
When she picked up, she was sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. “Ethan isn't answering my texts, Karen! Did Vivian cancel the wedding? Did you tell her everything?”
“Get in your car and come to my office right now, Claire,” I said, giving her no room to negotiate. “Bring the laptop you used to edit that PDF. If you aren't here in twenty minutes, I’m calling Teresa Bell and filing a criminal police report for identity theft.”
Sixteen minutes later, Claire stumbled through the dispatch doors. Her mascara was smeared across her cheeks, her designer trench coat rumpled. She set her MacBook onto my desk with trembling hands.
“Sit down,” I ordered.
She sank into the chair, clutching her elbows. “I swear to God, Karen, I didn't know! Mom told me that you two had an arrangement. She said you were too proud to announce the donation yourself because you didn't want the family to think you were showing off after the boutique went under. She said if I typed up the route sheet, it would seal Ethan’s family’s respect for us!”
“Where did Mom get the route codes, Claire?”
Claire shook her head frantically. “A man came to the house! Two weeks ago! A tall man with grey hair and an expensive grey suit. He brought pastries from the French bakery in Dilworth. Mom introduced him as Mr. Vance from the charity board.”
“Julian Vance,” I said.
“Yes! They sat in Dad’s study for two hours with the door closed. When he left, Mom gave me a yellow legal pad with those exact numbers written down. She told me to format it cleanly on Northline letterhead and drop your signature in from the July pilot receipt.”
I flipped Claire’s laptop open. “Open your sent mail folder.”
Claire logged in with shaking fingers. I scrolled through her drafts, her deleted items, and her sent messages. Sure enough, on July 28th, an email had been sent to Diane’s personal address containing the forged document. But there was another email, sent forty minutes later, directly to `[email protected]`.
Attached to that email was not just the forged contract—it was a scan of Northline’s Master Carrier Insurance Certificate and our private FMCSA PIN number, which Diane had evidently photographed off the emergency compliance board in my dispatch terminal during a family visit three months ago.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus whispered from behind me, staring over my shoulder. “They stole our fleet authorization token. Julian Vance didn't just want us to run forty routes for him. He has our digital credentials! He can dispatch *his own* ghost trucks under our DOT license!”
Claire looked between Marcus and me, her face ghostly pale. “What does that mean? What did Mom do?”
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“It means,” I said, slamming the laptop shut, “that Julian Vance isn't waiting for November. He’s already using Northline’s identity to move contraband right now.”
***
