The word remained circled beneath my fingertip.
“Relocation,” I whispered.
Arlo didn't answer.
He was staring at the line as if looking at it long enough might make another explanation appear. I wanted one too, because the alternative was becoming harder to ignore.
“It could be cargo,” he said eventually.
“It could.”
“But the date…”
“Is the same week Isabelle disappeared.”
His jaw tightened.
Neither of us moved.
I looked at the entries above and below it, searching for anything that might connect the word to a shipment. There was a container number beside one entry, a vessel code beside another, but the word relocation stood alone.
No container.
No cargo description.
No weight.
Nothing that made it look like an ordinary shipment.
“Why would they use a different term here?” I
