Three months later, autumn had arrived in Pearlgate.
At five in the morning, the sky was still pitch black.
I pulled on my waterproof rubber boots and opened the door to my apartment.
My phone buzzed twice. It was a message from Bob.
Bob: Faye, don't bother picking up inventory today. The market's closed for the day.
I stared at the screen for several seconds.
Ford Seafood Wholesale Market hadn't shut down once in ten years except during typhoons.
I called the management office.
Busy signal.
A car horn sounded downstairs. Ethan's driver, Mike, stood beside a silver Rolls-Royce, hands folded neatly in front of him.
I walked over.
He opened the rear door and bowed slightly.
"Madam, Mr. Stone asked me to pick you up."
"Pick me up for what?"
"Ford Market." He closed the door and
