My Estranged Cousin Tried to Evict Me From the Normandy Base Wash Station—Until I Pinned Him to the Concrete Floor
Later that afternoon, a runner found me near the motor pool, covered in grease from a stubborn transmission. “Ms. Croft? Adjuster Prynne wants to see you. Supply depot, now.”
I wiped my hands on a rag, the solvent doing little to cut through the grime. The summons felt like a trap.
The supply depot office was a cramped, poorly lit space that smelled of damp canvas and old paper. Captain Garrick stood by the single window, arms crossed, a smug expression on his face.
Walter Prynne, the base insurance and supply adjuster, sat behind a battered desk. He was a weasel of a man, his thin mustache twitching as he gestured to a stack of forms.
“Nora Croft,” Prynne began, his voice surprisingly smooth. “I understand you’re a civilian contractor. Excellent reputation back in Ohio, so I hear.”
I offered a noncommittal grunt. “What’s this about, Prynne?”
He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. It was an inventory sign-off form. “A little matter of some missing equipment.”
My eyes scanned the document. It listed six 2.5-ton truck axles. Each one was marked “CRACKED — GROSS CONTRACTOR NEGLIGENCE.” The total value was astronomical.
“These axles,” Prynne continued, tapping the form with a pen. “They were under your care, Nora. According to this report, the damage occurred during transport. Your negligence.”
“That’s a lie,” I said, my voice flat. “Those axles were inspected before loading. They were sound.”
Garrick chuckled from the window. “Perhaps your memory is failing, Nora. Old age, you know.”
“My memory is fine, Captain,” I shot back, ignoring the barb. “And those axles didn’t crack themselves. This report is false.”
Prynne leaned back, a calculating glint in his eyes. “False or not, the paperwork is signed. My office has a strict policy. Gross negligence voids your contractor status. Effective sundown today.”
My stomach lurched. They weren’t just smearing my name; they were trying to revoke my ability to work, to even stay on base.
“This is about the missing inventory, isn’t it?” I asked, my gaze piercing Prynne’s. “The parts Garrick’s been selling on the black market.”
Prynne’s face went pale. He flicked a nervous glance at Garrick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nora. These are standard scrap reports.”
Garrick stepped forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Watch your tongue, old woman. You’re treading on thin ice.”
I knew then, with absolute certainty. Prynne was covering for Garrick. Those axles weren’t cracked; they were gone, sold for illicit profit. And I was being set up to take the fall.
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