The Inventory Found Eight Assets And One Very Clean Square

I stopped inside the door.

M-06 had sat on that bench for four months. The rubber feet had left four dark dots in the dust. Somebody had wiped the center and missed the edges.

"Where's the split-heel mold?" I asked.

"Out for work," Nolan said.

Imani uncapped her pen.

"Vendor name?"

"I'll find it."

"Please do."

Her voice had the bright tone of someone asking for more coffee.

Mara reminded us that we had come to record facts. We started at the far wall.

Five molds. Two curing presses. One trimming bench.

Eight assets, all with yellow washers. The stamped numbers matched the sale schedule, the invoices, and the old photographs. Luis checked the power connections and lifting points without touching a control.

He gave me a written removal estimate of $1,850.

"The presses can move," he said. "Both need proper handling. Neither belongs to the floor."

Nolan folded his arms.

"You pull those out, you kill our orders."

"Locking out the person who makes the orders didn't help," I said.

Mara lifted one hand. I closed my mouth.

Imani wrote beside M-06: Not Present. Location Not Provided.

"Don't put that," Nolan said. "It makes it look stolen."

"It says what we observed. You can provide the location."

He walked into the office.

I stood by P-01 and looked at its timer. Someone had changed the cure setting. A tray of cloudy heel pockets sat beside it.

"Was this made from the hot resin?" I asked.

"That's trial stock."

I marked the tray with a paper card: Hold For Testing. Then I asked Mara if I could photograph it. Nolan agreed, with a loud sigh.

I wanted that sigh in the record too, but there was no box for it.

One mold stood open under a clean cloth. I checked the edges for dents without closing it. A small nick could leave a ridge against a diver's foot. This was why I kept condition photos, even before I had a partner to argue with.

Imani took a close picture of each mold face. Then she photographed the whole bench, so nobody could later mistake a close view for proof of where something had been.

Nolan came back with a delivery slip.

"See? It's being handled."

The slip showed a pickup on Tuesday, two days after he had locked me out. The item line said Aluminum Tooling, One Crate.

The delivery address was another industrial unit on Stock Island.

The customer name was Outer Channel Workshop.

"That's the repair place?" I asked.

"A contact."

Imani leaned toward the paper.

"Who approved the shipment?"

"I run the business."

"Whose name is on the pickup signature?"

His finger covered it.

Mara asked him to move his hand.

Nolan Pike.

"Please include that slip with the inventory," she said.

He let us copy it. He still seemed sure a confident answer would be enough.

Then Imani asked for the shop's open-order report and bank ledger. She had done our monthly books since we opened. Nolan had failed to send the last two statements.

"That isn't part of looking at machines," he said.

"It is part of keeping your company accounts," she answered. "Ezra asked me to reconcile them."

"I'll send them later."

Mara wrote down the request and the date he promised them. She didn't argue.

Before leaving, we all signed the inventory. Nolan added a note saying he disputed any right to remove equipment.

I added nothing. My ownership papers were already attached.

Outside, he followed me to the walkway.

"Fine," he said. "You own the machines. Happy? Come back Monday. Same pay. We forget the drama."

"And the keys?"

"You'll get one during work hours."

"And my half of the company?"

"You need to earn trust first."

I looked through the window at the yellow washers.

"Send any offer through Mara."

His friendly face went flat.

"You can't sell fins out of your kitchen forever."

"I haven't sold one out of my kitchen."

He shut the door.

That afternoon, Imani received the missing statements. Nolan sent them with a message saying she could stop making everything difficult.

She called me less than an hour later.

"There's a $7,200 transfer labeled tool repair. No invoice. It went to Outer Channel Workshop."

"Same place as the mold."

"Yes. I'm asking for support."

I wanted to drive to that address. Mara told me to stay away until we knew who controlled the unit and what access we could arrange.

I went swimming instead. No prototypes. Just steady kicks until my shoulders dropped.

When I came ashore, my phone showed a voicemail from a man I had never met.

"Ezra? This is Cal Mercer. I paid Outer Channel $1,800 for your split-heel fins. Nolan said you're their lead fabricator. Why won't anybody give me a fitting date?"