Page 1 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The bitter wind cut through Marcus Whitman's coat as he hurried across the deserted shipyard.

Ice crystals formed in his beard with each labored breath, the temperature having plummeted to well below zero after sundown.

His footsteps crunched in the fresh snow, the sound amplified in the night stillness of the Duluth port.

He shouldn't have come alone. That much was clear now.

But after fifteen years as a customs inspector, Marcus trusted his instincts, and something about those shipping manifests from the Northern Star had been off.

Numbers that didn't add up. Cargo weights that were always just slightly above what was expected.

Destinations that changed between documentation.

Little inconsistencies that would be missed by anyone who hadn't spent their career scrutinizing such details.

A sound behind him—the soft crunch of snow under a boot—made him freeze.

He wasn't alone.

Marcus quickened his pace, weaving between the towering stacks of containers. The flashlight beam bounced wildly as he moved, casting disorienting shadows. Another sound—closer now—had him breaking into a jog, his breath coming in painful gasps as the frigid air seared his lungs.

"Hello?" he called out, immediately regretting it as his voice echoed through the empty port.

No response came, but the footsteps continued, matching his pace with uncanny precision. Marcus had investigated enough irregularities to know when he was being followed, and whoever this was, they weren't part of the security staff making their rounds.

He ducked between two container stacks, hoping to lose his pursuer in the industrial maze.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he spotted an open container door, its interior pitch black.

Without thinking, Marcus slipped inside, pressing himself against the cold metal wall.

It was a rookie mistake, breaking the first rule of port safety: never enter a confined space without backup. But panic had overridden his training.

The footsteps slowed, then stopped somewhere nearby. Several agonizing seconds passed in silence. Had he lost them? Marcus allowed himself a moment of relief, exhaling slowly.

Then came the unmistakable sound of boots on metal—someone climbing into the container.

"I knew you'd notice eventually, Marcus," came a voice he recognized, though he couldn't immediately place it. "You've always been too thorough for your own good."

Marcus raised his flashlight, both as a potential weapon and to see who had cornered him. The beam illuminated a face twisted into a cruel smile, and recognition dawned with a sickening lurch in his stomach.

"You? But why would you—"

The blow came before he could finish, sending him sprawling onto the container floor, his flashlight skittering away into darkness. As Marcus struggled to his knees, he heard the heavy groan of the container door beginning to swing shut.

"No! Wait!" he shouted, lunging forward on unsteady legs.

Too late. The door slammed closed with a deafening clang, plunging the space into absolute darkness. The metallic sound of the latch being secured from outside echoed in the confined space.

Frantic, Marcus felt his way to the door, pounding his fists against the unyielding metal until his hands were numb from the cold and the impact. No one would hear him here, far from the active areas of the port, with the wind howling across the frozen harbor.

As the bitter cold began to seep into his bones, Marcus Whitman slumped against the container wall, the realization settling over him like the snow blanketing the port outside: he had found his evidence, but the price would be his life.

And as the temperature continued to drop in his steel coffin, his last thoughts were not of himself but of who might be next to discover what he had found in those falsified manifests.

The secrets of Duluth's port would remain frozen beneath the surface a little longer.