Chapter 4 - The Light Above Dock Nine
Priya did not let me call Marcus and accuse him of stealing payroll funds.
"We have a signature," she reminded me. "We don't yet have an explanation of the transaction."
"He knew where the money was going."
"It appears he authorized a release. That is not the same as knowing what happened afterward."
I hated that she was right.
The truth about Caleb's death was buried under so many versions of the truth that one number could seem like an answer until another document changed its meaning.
Priya sent a formal preservation request concerning the Dock Nine records, including incident reports, access logs, security footage, maintenance work orders, and the proposed demolition.
She also helped me submit the new documents to the detective who had handled Caleb's death.
Detective Palmer agreed to review them without promising that the original finding would change.
"An accident can involve negligence," she said. "That doesn't automatically make it a homicide."
"I know. I just want someone to look at what they didn't know then."
Naomi drove me to the doctor's appointment I'd been postponing.
The baby was growing on schedule, and his heartbeat sounded steady through the examination-room speaker.
I cried because I was relieved.
Then I cried because Caleb wasn't beside me, teasing that our son already had better timing than either of us.
The doctor asked about stress, sleep, and whether I had people helping me.
I told her the truth about the nights I stayed awake.
She connected me to counseling support and reminded me that asking for help was a practical decision, not a weakness.
When we reached Naomi's house, a long box stood in the hallway.
It was a crib with a note from Marcus.
CALEB HAD ONE LIKE THIS. YOU SHOULD HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.
I stared at the package until Naomi asked whether I wanted it carried back outside.
Part of me wanted to send it straight to the curb.
Another part imagined sleeping more easily if I didn't have to spend money on furniture.
I told Marcus's office we would not accept gifts tied to silence or access to the baby.
His assistant replied that there were no conditions.
I still kept the package sealed while I decided.
That afternoon, Priya introduced me to Mateo Ruiz, a former night maintenance supervisor at the warehouse.
He had left the contractor three months before Caleb died.
Mateo's hands were broad and scarred, and he kept smoothing the edge of his paper coffee cup with his thumb.
"The lights on Dock Nine had been unreliable for weeks," he said.
"You reported it?"
He showed us copies of two maintenance requests.
Both warned that an unlit loading platform created a fall risk for workers making night deliveries.
"I wanted the section closed," he said. "Management said it would be repaired after the next shipment."
"Who told you that?"
"Owen Vale's office."
Mateo had saved the requests because his supervisor later accused him of failing to report the problem.
He was worried the company would blame him if another worker got hurt.
"Did you see Caleb that night?" I asked.
"No. I'd already left the company."
I appreciated that he didn't pretend to know what he hadn't seen.
He did tell us that repair work required sign-off from the property manager and that there should have been invoices showing when the dock lighting and railing were replaced.
A public permit record confirmed that contractors had performed work soon after Caleb's death.
One invoice was marked EMERGENCY SAFETY REPAIRS.
The recorded date was the day before the fatal fall.
But the work crew's badge logs showed no one had entered the dock until the following morning.
Somebody had dated the repair as if the danger had been corrected before Caleb arrived.
I photographed the records Priya lawfully obtained and felt cold despite the summer heat.
May you like
"They didn't just leave it broken," I said.
"They made it look repaired."
