A month later, Far Harbor still smells like rain, rust, and old secrets. Dallas opens his apartment door to find a heavy parcel waiting on the mat, wax-sealed and plain as a coffin lid.

No note on the outside. No return address. Just a stairwell shadow thinning at the edge of the hall, like someone has already gone missing into it.

Inside, a tarnished silver locket clicks against a photograph of an unfamiliar waterfront building. The image is dated ten years ago, before the harbor cleanup, before the bodies, before Bell ever smiled for a camera.

The scrap beneath the parcel is blunt, cramped, and deliberate. The rot has roots deeper than the harbor, Detective.

Elias stays by the stairwell door, coat damp, eyes watchful, as if he expects someone else to step out behind Dallas any second.

Dallas flattens the scrap under the lamp and unfolds it with two careful fingers.

The handwriting is clipped, accountant neat. Not a threat, not a plea. It names a shipping archive, a shell company, and a private ledger kept before Bell ever touched Pier Nine.

A second line is pressed hard into the paper, almost scored through it. The parcel came from a storage address under the old customs annex, unit 4B, paid in cash for years.

Dallas turns the locket over. Inside is a tiny engraved harbor seal, and tucked beneath the clasp, a folded micro-slip with the same unit number written in the same hand.