The water lapped against the pilings below us, a dark and steady rhythm.

I did not offer him a greeting.

I held out the manila folder, keeping my arm straight and my shoulder squared.

The paper was already starting to absorb the dampness of the river air, softening under my fingertips.

“You should look at this before we speak,” I said.

Nathan squinted at me, his brow furrowed in the yellow light.

He took the folder from my hand, his leather jacket creaking as he moved.

He opened it, turning the first page back to expose the high-resolution scans of his signatures.

The sodium lamp cast a sickly orange glow across the white pages.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic slap of the river against the wooden pilings below us.

Nathan’s jaw tightened.

He did not look up immediately; his eyes scanned the lines of data he had hoped would remain buried in the logistics database.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice lower now, stripped of its initial irritation.

“It came from the desk of the Inspector General,” I said.