Rain needles the stairwell windows as Dallas Fontaine pushes through the service door and into a new corridor. The records wing gives way to a narrow loading passage, all damp concrete, buzzing fluorescents, and the stink of wet paper.
Murderbone pads beside him, hackles low. Ahead, a freight lift sits open with its cage light glowing, and a fresh trail of bootprints cuts toward a side exit marked STAFF ONLY.
The Clerk
You should not be here. They are clearing the lower files.
Dallas Fontaine
Who is they?
The Clerk
Men with badges. Men without names. Covington had the ledger moved before dawn.
Dallas steps past the lift and spots a dropped key ring by a wall drain, mud on the teeth, paper fibers caught in the split ring. Somewhere deeper in the building, a metal door slams once, hard enough to rattle the pipes.
Dallas Fontaine
The prints are fresh. The exit was used minutes ago.
The Clerk flinches toward the far stairwell while Dallas and Murderbone angle toward the side exit, the evidence tucked tight under his coat. The whole wing feels like it is exhaling, one locked room at a time.