Page 56 of Dozer

"Dozer. Come look at this."

He's there in seconds, flashlight cutting across the cabinet, weapon still in his other hand out of habit I now recognize as permanent rather than situational.

"Locked?"

"Not for long." I reassure him.

He looks at me. I look at him. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"That was judgment in your tone."

"Assessment,” he corrects.

"That's your word for judgment."

"It is." At least he’s not lying?

I pull my picks from the side pocket of my bag. "You know, for a man who claims to trust me, you spend a lot of time watching me commit minor crimes."

"Breaking into an abandoned government records cabinet isn't minor."

"Fine. Medium crime."

That gets the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. I catch it, of course I do, then I turn back to the lock before I can make too much of the fact that making him almost smile has somehow become one of my favorite hobbies.

It takes four minutes. The lock gives with a metallic click, and the drawer comes open with the specific groan of metal that hasn't moved in years. A smell of old paper and mildew rolls out, thick enough to taste.

I lean closer. "Please tell me you smell that."

"I smell it."

"Good. I was worried the last few days had finally broken me."

"They might have."

"Helpful."

Inside are folders. Actual paper folders, water-damaged at the edges but still legible, stacked in neat rows like someone took the time to organize them and then trusted the building to keep their secrets. I go very still.

"Okay."

Dozer shifts closer. "What?"

"I don't know yet." Which is the truth.

I pull the first folder and photograph the cabinet before touching anything else. Then the second. Then the third. I work methodically, documenting everything, because finding something important is only half the job. Proving where it came from is the other half, and I've spent too many years watching good evidence get destroyed by people who thought the excitement of discovery mattered more than preservation. Dozer watches without interrupting. He knows better by now.

The first records are medical. The next are trial documents. Then consent forms. My pulse changes. I flip another page. And another.

"This isn't just old files left behind in a random building," I say, mostly to myself, because the words need somewhere to go. "Pharmaceutical trial records. Falsified consent forms. Patients who were never told what they were actually part of."

Dozer steps closer. "Show me."

I angle the flashlight so he can see. A government contract number is stamped across the corner of several documents. Official. My stomach drops.

"And there it is."