Dallas stops at the second lane of Dockside Service, the blue cart already waiting like it belongs there. The tag matches the balcony routing slip exactly. Water slaps the pilings. The crane hums far off. This is the drop route, and somebody wants him here alone.

Murderbone angles forward, nose low, eyes fixed on the crate stack. Dallas spots fresh scuffs in the salt dust, a path that cuts behind the cart and toward a service door by the fence line.

Dallas steps into view before the staffer can vanish back between the crates. The man freezes, one hand still half-raised toward the cart, the other already shaking with regret.

That lands clean. The shadow behind the cart is not random, it is timing. Separate Dallas, pull him off the wedding site, and the rest of the day belongs to them.

Dallas leaves the panicked staffer talking to the salt air and follows the scuffs behind the cart. The dust print line bends cleanly to the service door, untouched by the others' boots.

Murderbone stays back at the crates, head high, watching Dallas and the fence line at once.

Dallas reaches the door and finds the handle already loose, the frame marked with the same dockside transfer code as the cart tag.

A thin strip of blue tape peels from the jamb, just enough to show a fresh pass under the latch.

Behind him, the staffer sucks in a shaky breath, but the only thing Dallas gives the noise is a glance.

Dallas sets his thumb against the seam and nudges the service door open. The dark beyond is empty enough to invite him in.