Chapter 7 - Shadows on the Willamette
The fog rolled off the Willamette River in thick, damp tendrils, swallowing the sodium lights of the Portland waterfront as we slipped through a service alley behind an old maritime warehouse. My boots felt like lead, the cold seeping through the thin soles of my trousers after hours of sitting among agricultural crates on the swaying freight car. Roman kept one hand on my elbow, guiding me through a rusted iron gate that opened into a quiet cobblestone courtyard.
"Sarah's loft is on the third floor," Roman said quietly, scanning the darkened windows above. "The building has no active security cameras connected to the municipal network, but we still move fast. If Arthur's firm has digital alerts set for your social security number or credit profile, any ATM ping or toll booth flash will put them on our tail within the hour."
I nodded, clutching my sweater closed against the damp river wind. "Sarah wouldn't sell me out. Not to Arthur. They hated each other. She warned me, six months before I disappeared, that the foundation's audit numbers didn't add up."
"People change their tune when a million-dollar corporate severance package lands on their desk," Roman cautioned, though his tone was pragmatic rather than cynical. "We verify everything before we trust anyone."
We climbed the creaking wooden exterior staircase, the smell of salt water and roasting coffee beans hanging heavy in the foggy night air. Roman drew a small tension tool from his tactical pocket, working the heavy brass deadbolt with practiced ease. The lock clicked open with a soft, muted pop, and we slipped inside into the warm, shadowed interior of the artist loft. Canvas paintings leaned against exposed brick walls, and the low hum of a refrigerator provided the only sound in the cavernous room.
A sudden gasp from the shadows near the kitchenette made us freeze. A woman in a charcoal wool coat stepped into the dim light of the overhead skylight, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she stared straight at my face.
"Elena?" Sarah whispered, dropping a ceramic coffee mug that shattered silently on the wide-plank floorboards. "My God... the memorial service was broadcast on every news channel in the state. Arthur said you fell into a crevasse on Mount Hood during a solo hike."
"Arthur lied," I said, stepping past Roman into the light, my voice steady despite the raw emotion clawing at my throat. "And I need your help to prove it."
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Sarah stared at me, her hands trembling as she brought them to her mouth. She looked from my bruised, dirt-streaked face down to my heavy sweater, taking in the undeniable reality of my pregnancy. Then, slowly, her shock hardened into a cold, lethal anger that mirrored the look I had seen in Roman's eyes back on the mountain ledge.
"Show me the files," Sarah said, walking over to her heavy oak drafting desk and unlocking a sliding wooden drawer. "Because if Arthur thinks he can bury embezzlement and murder under a pile of charitable tax write-offs, he's about to find out how hard my former boss is to get rid of."
