CHAPTER 43 —

The archives at Harrington & Burke smelled like rain on vellum: the dry, papery perfume of records that had survived hands and time and a thousand petits mensonges. Even in mid-afternoon the light was careful, filtering through frosted panes and landing in rectangles that made the dust look like constellations. Nicole felt as if she had walked into the inside of a sentence — a place where meaning had been folded and sealed.

Harrow had the warrant in his palm like a small, ...