The smell of damp paper, old dust, and faint gunpowder filled the small room.

“Let me see,” Roman said, pulling the chair out for me with a rare touch of gentleness.

I sat down, my knees still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the gunfire outside.

Victor stepped closer, the rubber tip of his cane tapping softly against the wooden floorboards.

Declan remained by the door, his hand resting on the grip of his holstered pistol as he watched the dark hallway.

Roman turned to the back of the ledger, where the columns of numbers became crowded and messy.

“These are my family’s transit records,” Roman said, pointing to a column marked with a faint, faded stamp.

“And those are the flower shipments my father handled,” I said, pointing to the corresponding dates.

I ran my finger down the yellowed paper, tracing the ink lines.

“The weights don’t match,” I said.

“What do you mean they don’t match?” Roman asked, leaning over my shoulder.

His coat brushed against my arm, smelling faintly of expensive leather and rain.

“Every Tuesday, my father logged three hundred crates of carnations,” I explained.