condition, documented how we had received them, and explained that the original materials should be handled carefully if they were going to be used in a criminal investigation.
She warned us that documents alone didn’t prove who started the fire or why the doors had been locked.
We would need corroboration.
I appreciated that she didn’t promise miracles.
For years, people had offered my family reassuring words instead of answers.
Selene offered a plan.
She would contact the appropriate investigators, arrange preservation of the recorder, and seek the original warehouse safety and dispatch records.
Evan Cole’s testimony might also be important, assuming he could be located and persuaded to cooperate.
Nico agreed to release the relevant company records to independent review.
I saw how much the decision cost him.
Not because he was reluctant to help my father, but because some of those records implicated people he had protected for years.
Including himself in dealings unrelated to the fire.
I didn’t pretend otherwise.
Being attracted to Nico had never made me blind to what he was.
Three days later, another problem emerged.
A compliance review at Bellandi Shipping revealed that someone had used my administrative credentials to authorize access to an archived shipment file.
The entry was dated the previous Thursday at 9:43 p.m.
I remembered that evening clearly.
I had been at my aunt’s medical appointment, sitting beneath the fluorescent lights of a clinic waiting room.
I hadn’t been anywhere near the office.
The electronic record made it appear that I had accessed information connected to Harbor Light Salvage.
If investigators believed the entry, I could be accused of helping manipulate evidence.
“Someone is framing me,” I told Nico.
We were standing in the records room beside rows of steel cabinets.
He examined the printout.
“Ronan has access to the security department.”
“Access isn’t enough.
We need proof.”
I looked at the entry again.
There was something wrong with it.
The system listed the access as originating from the executive administration desk.
But that terminal had been removed for maintenance two days before the alleged login.
I remembered because I had complained about losing access to my scheduling software.
I found the maintenance ticket, then the equipment inventory showing that the original terminal had been disconnected and stored in the technology department.
Someone had used a copied device identifier to make the login appear legitimate.
The company’s security records contained additional discrepancies.
Selene arranged for an independent digital forensics specialist to examine them.
The specialist found evidence that the access record had been generated through a privileged administrative account rather than my ordinary employee account.
That privileged account belonged to Ronan’s security department.
At last, we had something current.
Not simply an old recording.
Not only a collection of damaged documents.
Evidence that someone was still trying to alter the story.
On Monday morning, Ronan Vale arrived at the office with a paper bag of pastries.
He offered me one as though nothing had happened.
“Mara,” he said warmly, “you look tired.
Nico works you too hard.”
I declined the pastry.
He smiled.
“Something bothering you?”
“Just the usual paperwork.”
His eyes rested on my desk.
“You’ve been reviewing old warehouse records, haven’t you?”
I looked up.
“Why do you ask?”
“Old files create unnecessary confusion.
Better to let
