The basement of the Town Hall smelled like old paper and dust-covered regret. Faint light flickered from exposed bulbs, casting yellow pools across stacks of mismatched filing cabinets and crumbling cardboard boxes. Ronnie descended the creaky wooden steps again, the echo of her boots swallowed by the thick, musty air.
Landon was crouched near a metal shelf at the far end, a plastic crate on the floor beside him, papers spread out around his knees. He looked up the second he heard her steps and raised a file in the air triumphantly.
“Found it,” he called. “Kyle W. Peterson. Everything. Birth certificate, police records, school disciplinary actions, military files—raw data. No digital cleanup. This is the stuff no one got to whitewash.”
Ronnie moved quickly across the uneven floor, caref
