“Arthur,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the heavy tread of boots outside.

“We have to go,” Miller said, his knuckles white against the edge of the mahogany desk.

He reached for the ledger, but I pressed my palm flat against the page.

The blue ink of my father’s signature felt like a physical burn against my hand.

“Is it a forgery?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Eleanor,” he said, looking toward the high, barred window.

The shadows of legs moved across the frosted glass pane at the top of the wall.

“He would never have signed this,” I said.

“He was the head of the procurement oversight committee in 2019,” Miller whispered.

The door handle at the end of the corridor rattled.

Miller grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back of the archival room.

We squeezed between two towering rows of gray steel filing cabinets.

The air smelled of old paper, damp cardboard, and vinegar from decaying microfilm.

“In here,” Miller said, pushing open a heavy metal fire door.

We stepped into a narrow utility corridor lit by a single bare bulb.