Page 36 of When You're Lost

“I said wait,” Finn hissed.“Now we’re both stuck in here.”

Eleanor glared, her voice low.“I’m not letting you hog the glory if this leads to cracking the case.And I’m not loitering in a shady lot by myself.”

Finn couldn’t help a small chuckle, despite his irritation.“Fine.Stay quiet.”

They crouched among wooden crates and a few strapped-down pallets, the smell of packing materials thick in the enclosed space.Through a small gap in the tarp, Finn watched as the truck trundled forward, eventually passing under the warehouse’s overhead door.Dim overhead lights gave a flickering view of the interior.He heard muffled voices outside—a foreman barking orders, a couple of workers calling out instructions.Then the engine shut off, and footsteps receded.

After a moment of tense stillness, Finn peered through the gap.“No one’s around,” he whispered.“Let’s go.”

They slipped off the tailgate, dropping onto the concrete floor.Rows of shelving units rose on all sides, stacked with crates labeled ART HANDLING—FRAGILE or displaying cryptic inventory codes.The warehouse smelled of dust, varnish, and the faint hint of chemicals.

Eleanor sidled next to him, eyes roving over the crates.“What exactly are we looking for?”

Finn paused.“I thoughtyouwould know.You’re the art expert.”

Her brow shot up.“I thoughtyouwould know—being the policeman.”

He flashed a tight grin.“Consultantpoliceman...Eh, detective.Let’s check for any evidence these crates are fakes or contain suspicious items.If you spot something obviously forged, that’s our lead.”

She sighed but nodded.They crept between metal racks, trying to stay hidden whenever they heard approaching footsteps or idle chatter from workers.At one point, a forklift rumbled past, forcing them to duck behind a wooden crate until it clattered away.

Eventually, they approached a side aisle where a single guard patrolled, carrying a small tablet and a holstered baton.He turned unexpectedly, catching sight of movement.“Hey!”he barked.

Finn reacted on instinct, rushing him before he could draw his baton.He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it, and looped an arm around the guard's neck in a swift choke hold.The guard struggled for a second, but Finn maintained the hold until the man slumped unconscious.Gently, Finn lowered him to the ground, mindful of not causing any permanent injury.

Eleanor, eyes wide, hissed, “Good God, Finn, did you kill him?”

He checked the guard’s pulse quickly.“Nah, he’s just taking a nice nap.Let’s move before someone comes.”

“They'll sue you for that!”Eleanor whispered.

“Not if I find something.”

They stepped over the fallen guard, weaving deeper into the warehouse.Their hearts pounded, every shadow or echo making them flinch.At length, they found an area cordoned off with more racks—each containing large wooden crates that read ART / BLACKTHORN GALLERY CONSIGNMENT.Several crates were open, presumably mid-inspection.

Finn leaned closer to peer into one.“Look, paintings.”

Eleanor joined him, carefully lifting the corner of protective cloth.Beneath, four or five framed canvases rested.She examined them in the fluorescent glow.Her eyes scanned the brushstrokes, the coloration.

“These are forgeries,” she announced softly, placing a hand on one frame.“I can tell by the uniform cracking pattern on the paint—too artificial, as if it’s been chemically aged.Also, the coloration is slightly off for the historical period.The technique’s close, but not quite right.”

Finn exhaled.“So real paintings were supposed to be in this consignment, but the ones inside are fake.That means at some point, the genuine articles get swapped out.”

Eleanor nodded, her face grim.“Yes.If these are the fakes, that means the real paintings were probably taken out.The forger or someone here sells them on the black market for a huge profit.”

Finn tapped his phone screen.“We need to call this in.This is exactly what we needed—proof the warehouse is part of the forgery pipeline.Let’s take some photographs for evidence.”He began to take some photographs, Eleanor doing the same.

A sudden sharp blow crashed across the back of his head.Pain exploded in his skull, and his vision blurred.He caught a glimpse of Eleanor’s startled scream, her hands flying to her mouth, before darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision.The floor rushed up to meet him, and he felt rough hands dragging him across concrete.Consciousness slipped in and out, the pounding ache in his head overwhelming all sense of time or place.

When Finn’s mind finally cleared, he was upright, arms strapped behind him, ankles bound to the legs of a chair.A dull overhead bulb cast harsh light across a small, windowless room.A throbbing pain radiated from the back of his skull, making him wince.Then he noticed Eleanor, tied in a similar chair beside him, her face taut with fear.

“Eleanor,” he croaked, throat dry.“Are you okay?”

She tugged at the ropes on her wrists.“Apart from being tied up in a warehouse, I’m peachy,” she whispered, voice laced with sarcasm.

The door creaked open.A stocky, thickset man strode in, accompanied by two henchmen.He wore a cheap suit, shaved head glistening in the overhead glare.His movements exuded confidence as he stood before Finn and Eleanor, hands on his hips.

“Who the hell are you?”he demanded, eyes flicking between them.

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