They took the crate to the back platform, where the dock had sagged into a slant. The river’s skin shivered under the moon, collecting secrets and barges. At the far bend, a tug wailed like an old god with new arthritis.
Nora rigged a small waterproof tracker to the underside of the crate– paper-thin, passive, all appetite. “If they fish it later, we’ll know where it dries.”
“We’re not throwing it in,” Emilia said.
Nora blinked. “We’re not?”
Emilia pointed. The river eddied around a cluster of half-drowned pilings where a collapsed footbridge had left its ribs. “We stage the story. Crate ‘goes’ in. Mask ‘floats’ out. Phone ‘sinks’ and we ‘recover’ it. We make a witness.”
Rafael’s mouth tipped. “Make one?”
Emilia nodded toward the opposite bank. “Boys under the highway sell truth for
