The chair was still turning.
Then I heard it, somewhere behind the wall. A door banging. An engine coughing to life.
"Stay here," Knox said, and he was gone.
I stood alone in a stranger's office with a steaming mug and a pulse that wouldn't slow down. Outside, tires spat gravel. A shout, then silence.
I made myself move.
The desk was covered in paper, neat piles squared at the corners. Invoices. Every one from Parts & Supply Co. Every one addressed to the Hollow Saints. They were the same invoices I'd found in the green ledger, only here they were originals, in a printer's crisp black ink. Whoever sat in this chair had made them.
I started pulling drawers. The first was empty. The second held a stapler and a roll of stamps.
The third held a torn page.
It had been ripped out of a no
