Cargo Lost at Sea

Isabella spread four stapled pages across the mahogany desk. The top sheet bore the red crest of Vance Shipping, stamped alongside an exemption code registered to the charity.

Ethan pulled the papers toward himself. His right thumb pressed into his left knee as his eyes scanned the printed lines. “These are manifest records for our southern routes.”

“Port-au-Prince,” Isabella said, her index finger touching a row of ten-digit tracking codes. “Three shipments of broad-spectrum antibiotics, IV bags, and field surgical kits. All paid for by international relief grants.”

“Vance freighters carried them out of Miami,” Ethan said. His voice was low and quiet. “Where did the crates land?”

“Not at the regional hospital,” she said. “The foundation reported the cargo lost at sea and collected the insurance cash. Meanwhile, the crates were offloaded at secondary docks in Freeport and sold to black-market buyers for four times their value.”

Ethan traced the clerk’s signature at the bottom of the bill of lading. Brooke had used her access during their engagement to pull active ship schedules, aligning her fraudulent manifests with Vance Shipping departure dates.

“She didn’t just steal money,” Ethan said. His hands tightened around the edges of the paper. “She used my family’s name to move stolen medicine.”

“She needed real hull numbers to clear port authorities,” Isabella said, brushing non-existent dust off her dark jacket sleeve. “A registered Vance freighter rarely gets boarded in international waters. Your family’s clean reputation was her envelope.”

Ethan stood up, taking his weight on his heels. Pain burned through his left calf, but he stayed upright, looking down at the harbor lights twelve stories below. His grandfather had built that fleet on trust.

“I handed Detective Harris three folders of these receipts two weeks ago,” Isabella said, leaning against the desk. “He didn’t make a single move on them.”

Ethan turned back to her. “Why didn’t the police act on this?”