Night Shift Windfall: My Partner's Last Message

Before taking over the next shift, I receive a huge amount of money from my work buddy, George Rowland. He has given me ten thousand dollars in total, and the remark on the transfer notes that it's the payment for the morning shift I've taken for him.

"Hey Wilbur, I'm going back to my hometown and enjoy my new retired life. Have fun dealing with the night shift at the control room by yourself.

"When I was patrolling the apartment yesterday, I got my hands on treasure that came out of nowhere. Now that I'm rich, I no longer have to deal with the residents anymore."

With a grin, I curse George out for being unusually lucky.

That guy is so stingy that he refuses to even buy himself a bottle of mineral water that's worth two dollars. To think that he actually struck the jackpot this time!

I accept the money happily, thinking that I should take my younger sister out for a nice dinner once I get off work.

Ten minutes later, George sends the clock-off photo of him handing the shift over to me on the work chat as usual. His caption reads, "I've gone through my final shift properly."

The moment I make out the photo, I feel the hairs on my back rising.

"Hello? Is this the police? A murder has taken place in Riverside Residences!"

"Step back, everyone! Open the door!"

Peter Garrett drew his gun from his holster, and two police officers pushed open the metal doors to the walk-in freezer. A wave of biting cold hit them square in their faces.

The freezer unit's compressor continued in a dull, heavy drone. There were no blood stains or dead bodies—only a few boxes of frozen seafood.

"Wilbur Moran, is this the crime scene you spoke of?" Peter questioned in an icy voice.

"He took a photo right here just ten minutes ago!" I replied, pointing at the surveillance camera in the corner.

Peter dialed George Rowland's number, then put his phone on loudspeaker. After two rings, his call went through.

"Is this George Rowland? I am a police officer. Where are you at the moment?"

"I'm on the bus, heading back to my hometown. What's the matter?"

Peter ended the call and grabbed me by the collar. "Would a dead man answer his phone?"

"That wasn't Mr. Roland," I said, enunciating every word.

Peter shoved me aside, ordering, "Come down to the station tomorrow to give your statement!"

The officers left, leaving me in the basement on my own. I tapped into the photo in the group chat. In it, George was showing the peace sign while smiling from ear to ear.

However, he had lost a joint in his right pointer finger, so he usually avoided showing his right hand. However, the right hand in the photograph was not missing a joint.

I zoomed in on the photo as the tips of my fingers ran cold. I caught a vague glimpse of a silhouette on the observation glass on the freezer door in the background. Their face looked white and puffy, and they seemed like they had something over their head.

If George were the only person in the walk-in freezer, who could this silhouette belong to?

A chill ran down my spine. Subconsciously, I looked back. The steel door was shut tight, and the constant hum from the compressor filled the room.

No one else was around, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Right after that, I heard some footsteps from behind me. I spun around, only to see a man in a neat suit step out from the shadows.

He was the property manager, Tom Frost.

He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses upward slightly as a smile played on his lips. "Wilbur, what made you summon the police officers here in the middle of the night?"

"Hello, Mr. Frost," I greeted, putting my phone away immediately. My palms were clammy with cold sweat.

Tom walked right up to me, locking eyes with me the whole time. He did not pay any attention to the freezer.

"According to the officers, you made a false police report," he remarked in a voice so gentle, as if this were just a casual conversation.

I stammered in reply, "I-I-I might have been mistaken."

Tom let out a sigh, extending his arm and patting me on the shoulder. His hand felt cold, and he used an unusual amount of pressure.

"Wilbur, it's about time for your younger sister to take her SATs. I'm sure the tutoring classes cost quite a bit. But don't worry. Just be at ease and keep the ten thousand dollars you received from George."

My head snapped up. I stared straight at him. How did he know about the ten thousand dollars George had wired to me?

The grin on Tom's face widened.

"The moment George wired ten thousand dollars to you, you made a false police report, claiming that he was dead. What in the world were you thinking, Wilbur?" he questioned in an extremely sarcastic voice.

"That wasn't what I did!" I argued loudly.

"Shush." Tom put a finger in front of his lips. "Too much psychological stress can cause one to hallucinate, Wilbur."

He pulled his phone out and clicked "play" on a video file.

"Look. George sent me a video a moment ago, proving that he's safe and well."

The screen showed George seated on a bus, facing the camera. He said, "Mr. Frost, I'm heading back to my hometown to enjoy my retirement. Take good care of that kid, Wilbur, for me, alright?"

In the video, George's expression appeared natural, and his voice sounded familiar.

Yet, just one glance at the video sent a violent chill surging through my chest.