Keeping the torn corner

The first thing I felt wasn’t triumph. It was the sick little drop in my stomach when I recognised the compound code. For a second I wanted to put the docket back exactly where I found it. Not because I was protecting anyone. Because having proof means I have to do something with it.

I keep thinking about Bay 14. A row number is dull enough to feel harmless, but Caleb spoke with such confidence about when the toolbox moved. Confidence should not come that easily to a man with something to hide. The torn corner feels less like a clue now and more like a fingernail wedged under a door.

I copied the photograph twice. One copy is obvious, tucked where I’ll find it without thinking. The other is hidden among ordinary auction notes. I’m not proud of that. I’m tired enough to be ashamed, but not tired enough to trust myself with only one copy. Not this time.

~~Maybe I’m already obsessed with being right.~~ Maybe that’s fear wearing a practical coat. I need Bay 14 to matter before I admit what I’m actually chasing: not Caleb’s version of the timeline, but mine. I want the record to say I was here. I was paying attention. I did not let them turn the whole thing into a load that moved when convenient.

Porter asking about the depot workers felt dangerously good. I’m getting comfortable when someone remembers details accurately. I should remember that public trust can be temporary, and mine was not exactly valued once before.