Page 18 of Matthew
It might be something, or it might be nothing.
But whoever had sent that shipment hadn’t just made a mistake.
They’d made a statement.
The crunch of tires on gravel five minutes later had her heart rocking in her chest until her mind registered the fact it wasn’t the white truck returning, but rather the sheriff’s black SUV pulling into the side lot.
She tucked her phone into her back pocket and stepped toward the vehicle rolling to a stop.
The driver’s door opened, and Gabe Bryson climbed out, his sheriff’s badge catching the light, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. He took in the space with a practiced glance, then met her eyes as he approached.
“What happened?”
Callie gestured to the spot where the truck had been. “Delivery showed up about twenty minutes late. No logo. No paperwork. Driver didn’t have a name for who ordered it, but claimed it was back-ordered stock from Houston. Said it was signed for by an assistant.”
“You don’t have an assistant,” Gabe said flatly.
“Exactly.”
He crouched beside the tire indentions, inspecting them like they might speak. Callie watched him, trying to steady her breathing, but the tension still pulsed low in her spine.
“I asked for the sender’s name. He didn’t have one. I said I was calling you, and he left.”
“You see what was in the shipment?”
She nodded. “Two plastic containers. Looked industrial. No labels. Chemical smell was strong. Sharp. Not anything we’d ever stock.”
Gabe stood and pulled out his phone to take his own photos. “You get a picture of the truck?”
“Rear shot as it pulled out. Plate’s visible.” She pulled her phone back out, opened the image, and handed it to him.
He took her phone and frowned at the photo. “I’ll run it. Might be real. Might be stolen.”
Callie shifted her weight as Gabe snapped a picture of her screen then handed it back to her. Hopefully, it proved useful.
He straightened and scanned the tree-lined road beyond the lot, the open fields stretching in both directions. Nothing but fences, pastureland, and a few scattered homes. No stores. No gas stations, which meant no traffic cameras around.
“You got any surveillance on-site?” he asked.
She nodded. “Basic setup. Motion-activated cams near the front gate and along the main walkways. One over the delivery shed, but it’s older. Might not catch much detail from that angle.”
“Still worth checking,” Gabe said. “Can you pull it up?”
She nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”
She led the way down the gravel path, past rows of rosemary and sage, the scents mixing to form a delicious aroma. Her boots scuffed the packed earth outside the potting shed, and she keyed into the small security office attached to the back.
The room was cool, shaded by a tin awning and cluttered with supply invoices, watering charts, and half-empty iced tea cups. She moved straight to the small desktop monitor near the back and tapped the screen to wake it.
The feed blinked to life.
She rewound the footage by time stamp, pulling up the moment the box truck rolled into view. The quality wasn’t great, but the shape of the truck was visible. So was the driver, at least in silhouette.
“That’s him,” she said quietly.
Gabe leaned over her shoulder, hands on his hips as he studied the screen. “Plates match the photo. No signage, no uniform. Truck’s a piece of junk.”
“Yeah. And it doesn’t belong to anyone I’ve worked with.”
