Chapter 3
The drive to the riverfront salvage yard took twenty minutes through twisting industrial alleys where weeds choked the rusted rail spurs. The air smelled of damp earth, stale river water, and oxidized iron. Arthur killed the truck engine and stepped out onto the crushed gravel, the familiar crunch beneath his boots echoing in the damp air. Huge mounds of scrap metal rose like artificial hills against the overcast sky, draped in tangled vines and rusted cables.
A weathered corrugated metal building served as the main office. A handwritten sign nailed to the warped wooden door read: VANCE RECOVERY – INQUIRIES INSIDE. Arthur pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the room was cluttered with old engine parts, copper wiring spools, and fading calendars from the nineties. An elderly man with a shock of white hair and a stained canvas apron sat behind a heavy oak desk, meticulously sorting brass fittings into small wooden bins.
"If you're selling copper, the scale is out back," the old man said without looking up. "If you're buying, cash only."
"I'm not selling," Arthur said, stepping further into the dim room. "I'm looking for Marcus Vance."
The old man paused, his weathered hands hovering over a brass valve. He slowly raised his head, revealing sharp, observant blue eyes that scanned Arthur from his worn hiking boots up to his tense shoulders. "You're looking at him. And judging by the look in your eye, you aren't here for scrap metal. What's your business?"
Arthur reached into his pocket and placed the titanium ring on the scarred wooden desk between them. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. Vance stared at the tiny object, his expression freezing. The ambient noise of the yard outside seemed to fade into the background.
"Where did you find that?" Vance asked, his voice dropping an octave.
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"A crow dropped it in my backyard garden yesterday evening," Arthur replied evenly. "My daughter Clara used to work with these exact materials. I want to know how her property ended up in the beak of a wild scavenger miles away from here."
Vance pushed his chair back, the metal legs scraping harshly against the concrete floor. He stood up, walking slowly to the small window that overlooked the mountains of scrap. "Birds are smarter than we give them credit for, Mr. Miller. They nest in the rafters of our storage bays. They pick up shiny things, discard what they don't need, and hoard what catches their eye. But that specific ring? That wasn't just sitting out in the open. That came from a locked container we picked up from Miller & Vance two weeks after Clara disappeared."
