Page 54

Her smile disappears. "That serious?"

"Very."

She accepts the folder without another word. "I'll lock them myself."

Good. Because if these disappear too, I might actually start throwing furniture. "I'm being called to headquarters," I tell her. She glances down at the folder like it just became heavier.

"Do you think they'll try something?"

"At this point, I think anything is possible," I answer, and the weight of it settles between us. She places a hand flat on top of the folder.

"I'll guard them."

I believe her, which is why I leave.

The hallway outside is mostly empty, my mind already at headquarters — on Vance, on Anslem, on Winn, on whatever fresh argument is waiting for me. Then someone steps around the corner and I stop.

Marissa.

Her smile appears the second she notices me. Warm, polite, natural — as though absolutely nothing is wrong.

"As I live and breathe," she says lightly. "The famous inspector."

I don't smile. The fact doesn't seem to bother her. She continues walking until she reaches me, tilting her head with easy curiosity. "Rough day?"

I study her carefully. Every movement, every expression, every reaction. Nothing. No guilt, no panic, no nervousness — which somehow makes me trust her even less. "We're getting close," I say. The words leave before I can think better on them.

Marissa's eyebrow lifts. "To what?"

I hold her gaze. "You know exactly what."

Silence. Brief. Measured. Then she laughs — not mockingly, not defensively, almost genuinely confused. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

I don't answer. She tilts her head slightly, studying me the way I'm studying her. "Brock, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." The response sounds perfect. Too perfect. She smiles again — the same pleasant smile, the same calm expression, the same mask.

"If you'll excuse me," she says politely, "I have work to do."

I step aside. Marissa continues down the corridor and my attention follows her, something nagging at the edge of my mind. Not her reaction. Her location. My eyes narrow and I turn slowly, tracing the hallway she just exited.

It leads to the Office of Tax Records.

A cold feeling settles in my chest and I immediately change direction.

The clerk looks startled when I walk in, mostly because I don't bother knocking. The owl shifter sits behind a mountain of paperwork — round glasses, sharp eyes, perfect posture. Exactly the sort of man who alphabetizes things for fun. Good. That is exactly what I need.

He rises slightly. "Inspector?"

I place my badge on the desk. "I need a file."

"What file?" he asks, fingers already moving toward a ledger.

"Marissa Consulting Agency," I tell him. "Reference number dated five years back. Export VAT Return."

The owl shifter freezes briefly, then nods. "Give me a moment." He disappears into the records room and I wait, the silence stretching longer than it should. When he finally returns, something in his expression stops me before I can speak.

"What?" I ask.

He blinks. "I can't find it."