"Damn it, Stephen," she whispered, her voice swallowed by the darkness that seemed to press against her from all sides. "What have you gotten me into?"
She swept the flashlight slowly across the unit, the metal folding table in the center of the space that caught her breath and held it prisoner.
On it lay a sealed manila envelope, placed dead center like it had been waiting just for her, the corners perfectly aligned with the table's edges. Even in death, Stephen's obsessive attention to detail haunted this place.
She stepped forward cautiously, ears straining for any sound from outside, then turned and pulled the storage door halfway down. The clang echoed like a warning shot, or maybe a death knell. She left enough space for ambient light—and escape—if needed. 
The envelope was thick, bulging slightly in the middle. Her name was written across the front in ink she recognized instantly—Stephen's hand, elegant but hurried, the final 'a' trailing off as if he'd been interrupted. Or as if he'd known, somehow, that time was running out. She tucked it into her jacket for now, adrenaline sharpening her senses to a painful edge, making her hyperaware of every shadow, every sound, every breath.
She moved to the first box and flipped it open, the cardboard flaps releasing a waft of dust and paper that made her throat burn.
Papers. Dozens of them.
Medical records, pharmacy receipts, prescription slips—some yellowed with age, others freshly printed. But not just Stephen's. There were names she recognized, faces that flashed through her memory like ghosts seeking justice. 
Most of them were older. All of them were patients at the Estonia medical center. The doctor in charge of them—Dr. Myles. His signature, a lazy scrawl, marked the bottom of form after form like a brand of ownership.
"No coincidences," she muttered to herself, Stephen's favorite phrase echoing in the darkness. How many times had he said that to her growing up? How many times had he been right?
She flipped through the files quickly, her hands trembling as the same drug appeared again and again like a red flag screaming to be noticed, demanding justice for the forgotten.
Neuraxin-PX.
Kendra's brows furrowed, her mind racing to connect dots that formed a picture too horrible to fully accept.
She pulled out her phone and took photos of the files, her fingers clumsy with urgency and fear. One, two, ten. As much as she could capture before her hands started to shake uncontrollably, the light from her screen casting an eerie blue glow over the documents.
The second box nearly made her drop the flashlight, her stomach lurching with revulsion and heartbreak.
Photos. Hundreds of them. People looked gaunt, exhausted, sick—not just physically, but spiritually depleted, as if something vital had been drained from their very souls. Some were slumped in wheelchairs, their bodies betraying them. Others looked like they were in withdrawal, eyes sunken, skin papery and gray. A few looked... barely alive, more ghosts than people, haunting the edges of a community that had failed to protect them.
She picked up one photo, dated two months ago, the edges worn as if it had been handled repeatedly, studied obsessively. The image spoke of desperation and defeat.
A woman—pale as winter sky, hands shaking like autumn leaves—clutched an orange prescription bottle as if it were both salvation and damnation. Her eyes stared into the distance, unfocused, seeing horrors that existed only in her chemically-altered mind. Kendra squinted, leaning closer to the image, praying she was wrong.
"Mrs. Jordan?" Her voice was a whisper, disbelief strangling it. 
Her jaw tightened, muscles coiling with rage and helplessness. Mrs. Jordan—Mr. Jordan's wife. One of their neighbors from three doors down. Kind and soft-spoken. She hadn't seen her in weeks, hadn't thought to worry, had been too consumed with her own problems to notice a neighbor's disappearance.
She turned the photo over with trembling fingers. Scribbled on the back in Stephen's increasingly unsteady hand: 
Stage 3—disorientation, tremors, dependency. Advised to stop. Clinic refused. Subject exhibits withdrawal symptoms within 12 hours of missed dose.
Her stomach twisted into a painful knot, bile rising in her throat. She made a mental note that felt like a prayer: visit her, soon. If it wasn't already too late. 
The third box stopped her cold, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Inside sat a single black notebook, well-worn, the spine cracked in multiple places like broken promises, the pages warped from use and what looked like a coffee stain on one corner—evidence of late nights, desperate research, a man consumed by terrible knowledge.
She opened it with reverent care, the binding creaking in protest like old bones. 
Stephen's handwriting again, but different now—frantic, desperate. Uneven. Pressed so hard into the paper that some words had torn through, as if the urgency of his discoveries had bled through ink and paper into something primal.
March 15th. Saw some people moving cases into the back of the clinic after hours. Same boxes every week. Thought it was standard distribution—until I overheard them. "Switch the meds with this."
Kendra quickly glanced down to the next entry.
March 27th. I complained to a police officer. Detective Sean Carter. Said it wasn't my concern. Visited later that night telling me "not to thread on dirty water." Got a bit aggressive. Something's wrong. Really wrong.
Kendra's heart dropped into her stomach, the betrayal hitting her like physical pain. Sean. Sweet, protective Sean, who'd been helping her must have known what killed Mr Stephen. That moment Brandon's warning re-echoed in her mind. She had all along trusted the bad guy.
She flipped ahead several pages, her vision blurring as the writing became more erratic, more desperate.
April 10th. Kenny, please do something about it. If you're reading this, they probably know I was digging. I didn't want them to suspect—that's why I left this here. For you. You always were the smartest one. The only one I could trust. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this. I'm sorry I have to ask you to finish what I started.
She stared at the words until they blurred, a chill spreading across her skin like frost. His last entry. Four days before he died. 
She sank onto an overturned wooden crate, notebook in her lap, her mind racing ahead of her racing heart. The full picture emerged like a photograph developing in a darkroom—slowly, then all at once, revealing horrors that had been hidden in plain sight.
Sean. It had been Sean all along. 
The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity—Michael, his brother, working in pharmaceuticals. Regional marketer for Wellmore Pharmaceutical. Sean, embedded in law enforcement, perfectly positioned to cover tracks, explain away complaints, intimidate witnesses who got too close to the truth. Two brothers, two different kinds of power, working in perfect, deadly harmony.
And Lena. Her little sister. Wrongly arrested. Innocent and unaware. A convenient distraction, a way to keep Kendra's attention divided, to make her emotional, vulnerable, less effective.
Rage flushed her cheeks, hot and righteous and pure. She clenched her fist until her nails bit her palm, leaving crescent moons of fury that felt like battle scars. 
"I could've forgiven you for lying to me," she muttered aloud, voice trembling with barely contained fury. "But dragging Lena into this? Using her as cover?"
The memory of her sister's tearful face behind the bars of the county jail flashed before her eyes—young, confused, scared, , trusting Kendra to fix it. The weight of that trust, that responsibility, settled on her shoulders like armor.
She yanked out her phone and typed, fast and blunt, her fingers moving with military precision:
Brandon, I found it. Why Mr. Stephen had to die. Meet me at this location. Neville storage house—unit 47A. Come alone. URGENT.
Sent.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, wanting to type more. A warning. A plea. An explanation that would make sense of the madness. But time pressed against her back like a knife, and words felt inadequate for the magnitude of what she'd discovered.
She stood, breathing hard, tucking the notebook inside her jacket next to the envelope. The weight of evidence pressed against her heart—literal and metaphorical. She had what Stephen had feared to keep at home, what he'd died to protect. The evidence. The motive. The people involved. The terrible, beautiful, deadly truth.