He walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

I pulled a chair to the table and sat down.

The paper in my apron pocket felt heavy against my leg.

*They are lying.*

I opened the first ledger from the middle stack—Declan’s records.

The handwriting was thick, hurried, and stained with grease.

Declan watched me from his seat by the tall glass window.

He was cleaning his fingernails with a small silver knife.

“You know how to read those?” Declan asked.

“My father taught me,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Before he sold me.”

Declan snorted and looked out into the dark driveway.

“Your father was a fool who didn’t know when to fold.”

“And you?” I asked, turning a page.

“I don’t fold,” Declan said.

I focused on the columns of numbers.

The Rourke syndicate had recorded three shipments of industrial machinery through the northern docks in October.

But the Salvi ledger on the right showed no corresponding docking fees paid for those dates.

And Roman’s Vescari ledger listed those same dock coordinates as inactive during that entire month.