The clerk looked at me, his eyes darting from my plain winter coat to my boots.

I held his gaze and offered a polite nod.

“I’ll need the manifest lists for the incoming winter shipments, please,” I said.

My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

“Of course, Mrs. Dawson,” the clerk said, his demeanor instantly becoming professional. “I’ll have them printed for you.”

Julian led me down a narrow hallway to an office at the end of the hall.

The room was large, with a desk made of solid oak and windows that looked directly onto the pier.

A massive cargo ship was moored at the dock, its rusted red hull rising high out of the water.

Crane arms were swinging large crates from the deck to the flatbed trucks waiting below.

“This is your space,” Julian said, gesturing to the desk.

I walked over and touched the dark wood.

It was covered in a thin layer of dust.

I smiled slightly. “I suppose I should have brought my cleaning cloth.”

Julian let out a short, quiet laugh.

“No more cleaning, Claire.”