Chapter 4: The Empty Dockhouse
The damp salt air of the coastal slip clung to the wool of my uniform, smelling of rotting kelp and old engine oil. We stepped out onto the gray, weathered planks of Bruno’s dockhouse, the heavy timbers groaning softly beneath the tide. The mafia boss moved ahead of us with long, silent strides, his black tailored shirt catching the pale moonlight that filtered through the cracked windowpanes of the rusted tin shed. He didn’t look back at us, but his right hand hovered near his hip, ready for whatever shadows might wait inside.
I kept my grip firm on the little blonde girl's small hand. She was wearing her pristine white dress, though the hem was stained with dark mud from the walk down the embankment. She didn't seem afraid of the dark water lapping against the pilings, nor of the towering man walking a few paces ahead. She pulled gently on my fingers, her blue eyes fixed on the threshold of the crooked wooden door.
"He keeps his boat here," she whispered, her voice carrying clearly over the sound of the surf.
The boss stopped, his broad shoulders tensing under the dark fabric. He reached out and shoved the warped wooden door open. It shrieked on rusted hinges, revealing a pitch-black interior that smelled of salt, stale gasoline, and damp paper. He pulled a heavy metal flashlight from his jacket, the beam cutting a sharp, white path through the dust motes dancing in the damp air.
He swept the light across empty wooden crates, coiled fishing nets, and a grease-stained workbench. Then the beam caught something on the floorboards near an overturned wooden barrel.
The little girl slipped past my side, her white dress rustling against the rough wood, and darted toward a crumpled mass on the floor. She knelt down, her small fingers clutching at a discarded woolen blanket—a thick, gray plaid piece that looked entirely out of place among the fishing gear.
"It's hers," the girl said softly, looking up over her shoulder at the tall man looming above her. "She dropped it when we came here before."
The boss stepped forward, his boots heavy on the planking. He knelt down beside the child, the sharp lines of his face carved in harsh relief by the flashlight's glare. He reached out with a gloved hand and touched the edge of the blanket, lifting it slowly as if he expected it to turn to ash in his grasp. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking in his cheek.
"Before when?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, vibrating with suppressed fury. "When was she here?"
The girl looked away, her small chin trembling slightly. "Before the rain stopped."
He stood up abruptly, the beam of his light swinging wildly across the room before locking onto the heavy wooden door at the back of the shed—a side exit leading out to a secondary catwalk over the water. He strode across the room, his boots clattering against the loose boards. He grabbed the iron handle, but the door refused to budge. With a low curse, he threw his shoulder against it, but it held firm.
He bent down to examine the frame. A rusted padlock hung from a heavy iron staple, but the metal had been forced open recently; fresh, bright orange filings dusted the dark wood beneath it. Someone had broken the lock from the outside, or snapped it in a hurry from within.
He turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on me with a sudden, suffocating intensity. The flashlight beam washed over my face, blinding me for a second.
"You knew about this place," he said, his voice flat, stripped of all warmth. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation built on suspicion and grief. "Bruno worked for me for ten years. You've been in that house for five. Don't tell me you never carried messages down to the water."
"I never came down here," I said, my voice holding steady despite the cold sweat breaking out at the back of my neck. I kept myself between him and the child, though my knees ached from the damp. "Bruno kept to himself. He maintained the eastern gardens and the boat slips. We didn't share accounts, and he didn't report to the domestic staff."
"He reported to someone," the boss snarled, stepping closer until I could smell the expensive cologne mixed with the bitter scent of the sea. "My wife is dead. The coroner signed the papers. The department closed the file. And yet my daughter is standing in a deserted shack pointing at a blanket that smells like her perfume."
"She’s a child," I said, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper so as not to frighten her further. "She dreams. She misses her mother. But you saw the padlock. Someone else was here. Someone broke in."
He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment, his chest rising and falling beneath the black shirt. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, refusing to believe the drop beneath him. Without another word, he turned back to the workbench, shining the light over a clutter of discarded tools, old spark plugs, and empty oil cans.
His hand swept aside a greasy rag, revealing a small scrap of white paper pinned beneath a heavy wrench. He pulled it out, bringing it closer to the flashlight beam.
I watched his eyes scan the lines. The color seemed to drain entirely from his face, leaving him pale beneath his dark tan. His fingers curled into the paper, crumpling the edges.
"What is it?" I asked, stepping forward despite myself.
May you like
He didn't answer immediately. He slowly turned the paper over, his gaze locked on the ink. It was a handwritten grocery list—milk, fresh bread, a specific brand of tea—written in a sharp, elegant cursive that I had seen a thousand times on household memo pads inside the main estate. And at the bottom, dated in the margin just four days ago, was a note about engine oil for the outboard motor.
The handwriting belonged unmistakably to his wife.
