“I have it,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Search the desk,” Charles ordered, his knee pressed into the man’s lower back. “The bottom drawer. There has to be a physical copy of the ledger.”

The man on the floor groaned, trying to thrash, but Marcus held his legs down.

“You’re making a mistake, Whitmore,” the man hissed, his voice muffled by the floor. “You don’t know what you’re interfering with.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Lawrence,” Charles replied, his voice tight.

I didn’t waste time wondering how Charles knew his name.

I dropped to my knees beside the bottom drawer of the desk.

It was locked.

I grabbed a heavy metal paperweight from the desk and smashed it against the cheap lock.

On the third strike, the metal latches gave way with a loud snap.

I pulled the drawer open.

Inside were stacks of old tax forms, restaurant menus, and employee records.

I threw them onto the floor behind me, paper scattering in the beam of my flashlight.

At the very back of the drawer, nestled in a dusty corner, was a thick, leather-bound book.