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1
Iris
From the moment this story was dropped on my desk, I knew it was going to change my career. Nothing has ever come close to this.
It’s a topic of conversation that’s been buzzing around the city for a few months now, but I always chalked it up to paranoia as a symptom of suburban boredom. The way people spoke about it always seemed so melodramatic and blown out of proportion that I didn’t give it much thought.
At least, not until now.
Human trafficking has wrapped its cold, reptilian hands around the throat of my community, and I finally understand why. There have been speculations about it in the past, sure, but now we have concrete evidence that it’s taking place right on the harbor. The same place where our fresh fish imports and manufactured goods roll into is the hub of unspeakable acts.
John knew it would be a good case for me to pursue because of my close-held beliefs and values surrounding feminism and equality. However, I truly do wish he had considered the ramifications of putting me on this story.
The information I’ve received is simple, to the point, and lacking any nuance – go to the harbor and find any evidence that these crimes are amiss. How the hell could he send a small, young woman to such a place with a clear conscience?
I suppose he’s a pretty traditional man in the sense that he sees women as ornamental and fragile until we start demanding equal treatment. Then, suddenly, he advocates for more women in sewage treatment facilities and active combat. He has no understanding of the meaning of feminism, and he’s perfectly happy that way.
I glance over the instructions at least three times before I’m able to even get up from my chair to get my coat on. There’s a stone in my stomach that grows heavier each time my eyes scan the paper.
Hudson Industrial Harbor
Thirteenth Receiving Bay
Building 218
Proceed with Caution
I refuse to allow my nervous system to psych me out. In a way, it feels like a betrayal of my evolution to push back against the very real, very necessary gift that is innate fear, but I’ve been working for years for the position I’ve found myself in. If I want to stay where I’m at, or hell, even move up in my company, I need to push my limits.
I’ve never been the type to turn down an assignment, especially not if I thought that’s what John wanted. I think he offers me assignments like this in order to spook me out of the industry. He thinks he’s so much better at his job than I am when all he writes about is the stock market.
After being at this publisher for five years, I thought I would have gained a little more respect from him, but he refuses to see the value in my work. I studied just as hard as he did for my degree, possibly harder. Knowing him, he just partied for four years and did all his assignments hungover.
Still, I wonder about how dangerous my male cohorts’ assignments have been in the recent past. I doubt it’s been anything within the realm of grievous bodily harm.
Whatever. I pick up my coat off the back of my chair and pull it over my shoulders, pulling it tight as I button it. The weather has been unseasonably cold lately, and of course, tonight the temperature is dropping into the mid-thirties.
All I need to do is find something damning to take pictures of, both for my story and for the police department. I check over my DSLR camera a few times to make sure I have the right lens, a strong charge, and no flash on. I’d hate to be caught in the middle of this with any of these issues on the horizon.
The drive to the location in question feels surreal. I watch tons of totally average people wander about the sidewalks on their way home from work, and I wonder to myself what they’re all thinking - worrying about making their quarterly goals, stressing about a bad performance review, maybe daydreaming about a forbidden office romance with an intern.
Whatever it is, it’s safe to say that I envy the safety of it all.
When I pull up to the harbor, I park my car a few blocks away in a parking lot across from a run-down neighborhood in order to conceal my presence. There’s a dog barking in one of the front yards as I close my car door, and my blood boils for a split second as I panic that my cover has been blown.
I stop for a moment or two, listening intently for any sign that I’m being pursued.
Nothing.
The walk to the reception bay in question is already going to feel like an eternity, so I grip my keys, take a deep breath, and venture onward.
The cold is frigid enough to sink into my bones within minutes, and I’m already regretting my choice to suck it up and take this case in defiance of John’s expectations. He gave me this case with the full knowledge that I wouldn’t want to take it, and he was damn right about that. But if any woman is going to prove him wrong and shove his face in it, it’s going to be me.
Waves slap the crumbling pavement as I approach the reception bay, and I can see a dim light glowing from within Building 218 as I step closer.
Fuck.
Of course, I should be overjoyed at this discovery – this damn near proves that something is actually happening here! I could have this piece written and on John’s desk by Friday morning if I’m able to get enough quality photos of the operation inside.
