The Courier Saw Me

Mara’s offer was better than I expected, and that made it more dangerous. A public retraction, her word against the Scaffold Boy story, and all I had to do was step aside. I said no because I wanted the truth on my side, but the truth and my pride are getting harder to tell apart.

I hate that I told her where the carrier was. The warehouse, the route, enough detail to make her operation look compromised. It felt like leverage. It also felt like fear wearing a clever coat: fear that Rale gets there first and pockets the plate, leaving me with another near-miss to tell over drinks.

When the courier turned, Mara gave me thirty seconds. I could have run. Instead I stayed hidden and let the yard dogs make the noise. There was a spark of pride in that, but also a colder truth underneath. I did not stay for the plate. I stayed because being seen felt too much like being caught.

I keep adding the account number to the old directories, checking whether the name changes by a letter or a street. It has not changed yet. I know how pathetic that sounds when I write it plainly.

I did not warn Rale. I spent an hour considering it, then decided silence kept me cleaner. Rale may reach the plate before sunrise. Mara may blame me. The courier may already have changed the route.