The Warehouse Inventory Left Six Empty Lines on Our List

The warehouse stood outside Fayetteville behind a row of roll-up doors.

We arrived Wednesday with Jo, Mara, Verna, and a deputy assigned to keep the court's inventory orderly. Evan's lawyer had arranged access. Nia came to document which county containers were there.

I brought my magnifier, a soft tape measure, clean supports, and copies of all eighteen condition sheets.

Evan unlocked a door marked OFFICE STORAGE.

"Everything in the preview is here," he said.

"We'll count," Jo answered.

The sash case sat on a metal shelf. Beneath it stood the gray chest.

Its bent handle faced the wall. A short yellow ribbon was caught under the grip.

Verna made a small sound and pressed her lips together.

"That's it," she said.

I asked everyone to leave space around the folding table. Then I recorded the case seals before we opened them.

The sash lay on my shaped support. I recognized the small pad I had placed beneath its worn edge. The condition photograph showed the same pad, the same old stain, the same broken green thread.

"OX-01," I said.

Mara checked the first line.

Evan shifted his weight.

"We weren't hiding anything. Mr. Firth represented them as surplus."

Jo pointed toward his lawyer.

"Save that discussion for counsel."

We opened the chest.

The top tray held two aprons. The next held the child's coat. Beneath those lay folded cloth, each piece separated by tissue.

The number tabs were still attached with my blue stitches.

On one sleeve, somebody had pulled the tab hard enough to tear the sleeve's edge. The third stitch had given way. The old textile underneath hadn't been touched.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Storage sleeve torn," I dictated. "Object unchanged from January record."

Verna looked at the loose blue thread.

"You left them a way in," she said.

By noon, we had counted eleven objects in the chest. With the sash, that made twelve.

Six lines on Mara's list remained blank.

I counted again from the beginning. Eleven in the chest, one in the case. I checked the tissue between every tray and asked the clerk whether another container had arrived. He checked his delivery log before answering. There hadn't been one. I wrote his answer beside the time.

A tablecloth. A work skirt. Three woven runners. A needle roll lined with red flannel.

Verna read that last line twice.

"My mother kept her good needles in there. She'd count them before she shut it."

"We'll keep looking," I said.

I couldn't promise more than that.

Evan's lawyer took him into the office. Their voices rose, then stopped when the deputy moved toward the doorway.

Nia asked the warehouse clerk for the intake record covered by the order. The clerk brought a folder showing two packages received Tuesday afternoon, along with older transaction papers filed under the same loan number.

One page showed the chest had been opened at the annex in May.

"I thought nothing could leave while the pipe report was pending," I said.

Nia copied the page.

"That's what your access refusals said."

The deputy logged each object before it went into a clean return container. Under the court's order, the twelve would stay at a separate storage room approved by the trust until the judge settled the claim.

They wouldn't go back under Malcolm's key.

At two, my phone showed a county notice. Malcolm had been placed on leave pending the audit. Another employee would handle collection access.

I read it once, then put the phone away.

"Is he gone?" Verna asked.

"For now. We still have six empty lines."

She nodded and checked the sash case latch herself.

After loading, Nia asked me to review an invoice for $9,600. Evan had billed the county for emergency stabilization of all eighteen textiles in April.

"Does this describe work you performed?"

"No. I would have written treatment reports."

The invoice listed washing, heat treatment, and machine pressing.

My skin went cold. Those steps could have ruined several of the pieces.

"I saw no sign of that work today," I said. "But I need to examine all eighteen before I can give you a full report."

Nia placed the invoice in her folder without calling it proof of anything yet.

While the others checked the return containers, I stood beside Verna at the open chest. Empty tissue lay in its lower tray.

"I should've asked him to open it Tuesday," she said.

"He signed for what he released. You weren't there to inspect his honesty."

She rubbed the yellow ribbon between her fingers.

Evan's lawyer came back across the loading floor carrying a sales slip.

"We have a location for the remaining six," she told Jo.

Across the slip, someone had stamped PAID: $4,800.