The Line Begins To Blur

1. Investigation

This city had a horrible drug problem. If you drove almost anywhere in the lower end of the city by the seafront you would see the streets crowded with hovels that the homeless built. Most of them were all hunched over and hobbling around like zombies from an illegal substance that's starting to run rampant here in Portland. The news is calling it "Z" and say it's turning people into walking corpses.

On top of all of this, the city was in a choke hold from the three mafia families who ruled it. It was no secret, they made their business known every chance they got. This place seemed like it could be the real-life Gotham City... minus the super villains and vigilantes.

One of the headlines caught my eye. Thirteen dead in massive shooting at shipping port.

Clicking on the article I skimmed it while eating the granola bar I'd grabbed when rushing out of my door this morning. Thirteen men, some linked to the Russian crime family, were found dead at the shipping yard early this morning. Police are reviewing the CCTV footage of the yard to see if they can get an image of the men who perpetrated the killing but so far the police have next to nothing.

Great, I thought to myself sarcastically.

Before I backed out of the page, the image posted with the article caught my eye. In the background, behind all of the bodybags, yellow evidence markers and crime scene tape was one of the shipping containers with my dad's name and logo painted on it.

The side of the metal container was riddled with bullet holes making the logo almost unrecognizable and the padlock on the door looked like it was snapped open. Maybe someone was trying to steal the cars?

"Scarlett, good morning!" My Uncle's voice calls from somewhere behind me making me jump in my seat, my coffee nearly spilling all over me.

Turning to see Uncle Mike walking in through the back doors of the building, coffee and keys in one hand and his beat up briefcase slung over his shoulder.

"Mm," is all I can manage while I grab for some tissues to clean up the liquid that spilled on my desk.

"Always the first one here." He says in a sing-song tone, walking over to my desk and putting his drink and keys down on the raised ledge in front of me. "You don't have to be here this early all the time, 'ya know."

Throwing the damp tissues in the trashcan at my feet, I look up and give him a smile. "Yea, I know. But I'm pretty sure the guys would burn the place down if they tried to make coffee."

I was only half joking. I really don't know how some of the salesmen manage to get through life.

Mike forced a laugh that fills the open space, echoing off of the showroom walls. He takes a sip from his thermos, clearing his throat. His demeanor changing to a more nervous one.

"While I have you here," he starts, hands fiddling with his tie. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming in tomorrow to help out with the inventory count." He pauses for a moment, pushing his large glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his finger. "If you didn't have plans already, I know tomorrow is your first day of vacation." Mike adds.

I try to stifle my sigh. He knows I don't have any plans. It's really no secret amongst the employees that I have zero social life. I scrambled for an excuse, opening my mouth in hopes I would say something, anything, but I kept coming up blank.

"I thought the inventory counts were scheduled for next month?" I questioned.

Now it was Mike's turn to grasp for something to say. "Yea... well. You know, the holidays are coming up and it's hard with everyone's schedules and traveling. I figured we could get it done early? I'll credit you back one of your vacation days!"