Chapter 15 · Chapter 15

He did not sit down either. He went to the low cabinet under the window and returned with a flat leather case, the color of dried date syrup, pale at the corners from years of one hand carrying it.

"Put the book down," he said. "Not away. Down."

I set it on the low table, green cover up, and kept my feet.

He opened the case and dealt the papers out across the polished wood one by one, overlapping, the way a man lays out a hand he intends to be counted.

"Read the seal before the writing," he said. "The seal is the argument. The rest is only ink."

The lamp leaned close. I held the first page by its corner and turned it to the warm light. The imprint sat at the foot of the page, pressed hard enough to raise the fiber: a clean square with a notch cut from its lower line, the same distinct flaw on every sheet, the kind of mark that cannot be forged without being corrected.

"A lease," I said.

"On the sixth floor of the commercial tower. Fifteen years. Signed in the spring."

I laid it aside and took the next.