4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
One, Two, Three, Roll
One. Two. Three. Roll. Four words that separate before from after. Before, the manifest was just missing paperwork. After, it's the thing Luke pulled from a dead boy's pocket while Beatrix gagged and Gladys shattered her wine glass across concrete. Paper doesn't care what you did to get it. Paper just sits there, crumpled and warm, waiting to be useful. And useful, right now, is the only thing keeping any of them out of prison.
The truck swap is brutal logistics. Move Joel's delivery truck to the street. Drive Gladys's rental through the Portal. Transfer the legitimate cargo—box by box through air thick with the stench of blood turning sour. Every surface Luke touches is evidence. Every second they linger is exposure.
But none of it matters without the manifest.
That single sheet of paper—names, addresses, delivery times—is the difference between suspicion landing here and suspicion landing somewhere else. Luke ransacks the cab. Glovebox. Folders. Every compartment yields nothing but the detritus of a young man's ordinary life. Sunglasses with a cracked arm. Unopened condoms. The archaeology of someone who expected to go home tonight.
The manifest isn't in the cab. Which means it's in Joel's pocket.
Beatrix refuses. Then Gladys begs—I don't want to go to jail—and reluctance becomes compliance. On the count of three, they roll him. The body lurches. Beatrix squeals. Gladys's wine glass shatters. And in the chaos, Luke's fingers close around crumpled paper, warm from the afternoon sun, stained but intact.
The sisters will complete the deliveries. The cover-up takes shape.
But some stains don't wash out. Not ever.
