“The 2019 authorizations,” he whispered, placing it on the desk.

He blew a thin layer of dust off the cover.

“The signatures are all here.”

My hand shook as I reached out to open the book.

The paper was thick and yellowed at the edges.

I flipped through the early pages, my eyes scanning the official stamps and the neat, handwritten columns of numbers.

The phone in my hand vibrated again.

Another text.

*They are in the courtyard.*

I looked up at Miller, but his eyes were fixed on the open page of the logbook.

He had his finger pointed at the very first authorization entry, dated July 12, 2019.

“Look,” he whispered.

The ink was faded, but the signature at the bottom of the form was instantly recognizable.

It was a bold, sweeping script that I had seen a thousand times on my own childhood report cards.

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the name.

“No,” I whispered.

“That’s not possible.”

Above us, the sudden, sharp sound of boots echoed on the concrete stairs of the courtyard.