Page 10 of Devlin (Lighthouse Security Investigations Montana #4)

Just as her thoughts spiraled into that Devilish hole, Margarethe’s commanding voice cut through.

“Let’s go to your office, Mia, so you can get me up to speed with everything that’s going on.

I know you didn’t feel comfortable putting it in an email.

Cole, Todd, and Devlin…it’ll be a tight fit, but I think it’s the best place for us to meet. ”

Mia inclined her head, her throat tight.

“Okay.” Her one-word response sounded ridiculous even to her ears, but being close to Devlin was the last thing she wanted.

As she climbed the wooden steps to her small office overlooking the warehouse, she shook her head, dislodging thoughts of him.

I don’t give a fuck what he calls himself. Maybe Farid was right. He is the devil.

The small landing at the top of the stairs felt cramped, with barely enough space for the group.

Mia unlocked the door and stepped into her office.

She’d never thought much about the size of her workspace before.

Meetings with staff usually took place in the warehouse, where they’d stand or perch on wooden crates arranged haphazardly.

But now, with her office about to host this group, it seemed starkly barren.

An old wooden desk sat against the wall, accompanied by an equally weathered chair. A laptop rested on its surface next to a locked filing cabinet. The only personal touch was a framed collage of photographs hanging above the desk.

Her gaze lingered on the images—one of her family on bales of hay in front of their barn and another from her last visit home, surrounded by extended family.

A more recent photo was of her brother and sister-in-law, along with cousins and their families.

In the center stood Mia. She had once loved that photo, but now it struck her how solitary she appeared amid the crowd.

Other photos captured moments from her work in various camps.

One, a favorite, showed her surrounded by refugees as they received their first food rations.

Their expressions radiated gratitude, a humbling reminder of why she did what she did.

She hadn’t known the picture had been taken until someone presented it to her.

The clatter of boots on the wooden floor jolted her from her thoughts.

Turning, she saw Devlin descending the stairs to retrieve the wooden folding chairs one of the workers had brought.

He carried them back up, his movements deliberate.

Mia glanced at the chairs and bit back a smirk.

They looked too flimsy to hold his weight.

If one collapsed and sent him sprawling on his ass, she wouldn’t mind.

By the time the door was closed, she had insisted Margarethe take her chair, leaving Mia perched on the edge of her desk near the laptop. Devlin, Cole, and Todd formed a semicircle, and to her disappointment, each chair supported them without incident.

“Tell us what’s happening,” Margarethe prompted, her tone direct as always. “And elaborate, for the benefit of our security investigators.”

Mia opened her laptop, navigating to the files she needed.

She avoided looking at Devlin and focused on Margarethe as she began.

“As you saw downstairs, all the food delivered to this camp comes through here. This is our central delivery and distribution center. While we can’t always account for what happens before it arrives—whether it’s flown in or transported from an outside agency—we inventory everything as it’s unloaded.

Discrepancies happen occasionally. Human error, or sometimes someone local helping themselves to a crate of tomatoes.

Those we don’t worry about chasing down. ”

She clicked on another file, continuing, “Once the food is secured here, our priority is maintaining the integrity of the distribution center to ensure the supplies reach the refugees in the villages.”

“And each village has its own distribution warehouse,” Margarethe added.

“Correct.” Mia nodded. “My staff and I oversee the distributions from here to the five villages. I’m also ultimately responsible for ensuring those distributions make it to the refugees.”

“That’s a huge responsibility,” Devlin said, his voice even but probing. “We’ve learned you have over a hundred thousand refugees.”

Her jaw tightened as her gaze snapped to him. “Yes, it is a huge responsibility. And like all my responsibilities, I take it very seriously.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Mia recognized her tone was far from welcoming or encouraging.

She closed her eyes for a second, reminding herself that, for whatever reason, he had come here to help.

She wondered if he’d known she was at this camp, then recalled the shock on his face when his eyes landed on her.

No, he had no idea I was here. She wasn’t sure if that made her happy, sad, or downright pissed off.

“You were saying?” Margarethe prodded.

“Yes, yes,” Mia said, dragging her thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I’m not at every intake or distribution, although I am probably present at over half of them. Farid is my second-in-command and has been at this camp for many years.”

Cole asked, “When food leaves this distribution center here and goes to one of the villages, what is the process?”

She shifted slightly on her desk and turned her laptop around.

“Our internet is not always reliable, so we usually have our spreadsheets to check off when crates are loaded from here. One of my staff or I will go to the village with the truck and note it as the food is transferred. The staff assigned to that village’s food distribution center oversees the refugees in that area.

When they get low on supplies and notify me, the process begins again. ”

“Are the food distribution centers guarded?”

“Yes and no.” She shook her head, her shoulders slumping.

“When no food distribution staff member is present, the centers are secured and locked. Moses provides security for each village, and his team makes rounds near the food distribution centers. It’s not a perfect system, but aside from small thefts, we remain fairly secure. ”

She lifted her chin and slowly looked at Cole, then Todd, and finally, Devlin, meeting each man’s gaze in turn.

“I’m sure you must assume that the refugees are so desperate for food that they would take everything they could by any means possible.

But you will find that most refugees are so grateful to be here because their lives were so poor where they came from that they work with us, not against us.

I’ve seen families turn away some of their rations when they realized we were running short so there would be enough to go around.

I’ve seen men go without so their wives and children could eat.

I’ve seen families with meager portions share with newcomers just arriving.

While there is evidence of small thefts—a bag of rice, a crate of fruit—these refugees also farm, grow what they can, and share or sell their produce. ”

The room fell silent as she finished, the weight of her words settling over them. She fought the urge to shift on the desk again, wishing now she’d asked for another chair to be brought in.

As though he could read her thoughts, Devlin stood. “Please, sit,” he said softly, stepping away from the chair.

She battled the desire to bark at him, refusing any act of generosity.

But not wanting to raise questions among the others, she stood, shifted the chair next to her laptop, and sat down.

Devlin leaned against the wall by the doorframe, casually crossing one booted foot over the other, his arms folded across his broad chest. For all outward appearances, he seemed calm, in control, and unbothered.

She wanted to slap him.

The intensity of the desire shocked her. She wasn’t a violent person, yet she was surprised by how much she wanted to hurt him. Christ, even after a decade, just being in a room with him could make her lose herself.

She continued with another shake of her head to dislodge all stray thoughts.

“The villages are set in a semicircle. There are five, the largest of which is Bulit, which holds about thirty thousand refugees. Then there is Kaborogatu with twenty-five thousand. The next ones farther along are Mukondo and Kaoni, at twenty thousand each. The smallest village is also the farthest from us. It’s the one where some new refugees will be brought.

Sweswe only has about twelve thousand refugees.

It is also the village closest to our outer perimeter on the north. ”

She leaned over and jerked on a drawer, jiggling it until it opened. Pulling out a map, she spread it on the desktop. “While the camp is in constant flux, this shows how it is now.”

“Is each village self-sufficient?” Devlin asked.

“Yes,” she replied, casting a furtive glance his way before looking back down at the map as though it was the most interesting thing in the room.

“Each village has its own food distribution center, supply distribution center, and director who reports straight to Dr. München. They have their own medical clinic and their own WASH representative.” Her brow furrowed as she considered how much the three men understood about the camp.

“WASH stands for water, sanitation, and hygiene. As you can imagine, without the work of these people, many of the refugees would die of disease.”

She spared another glance toward Devlin, finding him nodding, his gaze still pinned on her.