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The records office has three monitors, two printers, and enough paper stacked around the room to suggest nobody trusts either. Mott takes the center terminal. Garrett stands behind him. I take the side angle where I can see the screen and the door.

“Lot 118,” I say. “Original intake entry.”

Twenty-six breeding heifers, received at 4:38 a.m. under account 4473. The consignor listed is a producer whose county brand registration expired before the date he supposedly owned these animals. The account has no current premises information, and its phone number shares the last four digits with two inactive accounts.

“When was this account reactivated?” I ask.

“I’d have to pull the log.” Mott gestures toward the yard. “We have a sale to run.”

“Then preserve everything attached to Lot 118 before anyone runs anything. No edits. No cleanup.”

His fingers leave the mouse. “Are you accusing my staff?”

“I’m defining the request.”

Garrett steps closer to the desk. “Lock the lot.”

“We can’t lock every record she finds unusual.”

“We’re locking this one.”

Mott holds his gaze for a second too long, then clicks. “It’s locked.”

Garrett leans beside me to see the screen, close enough that his sleeve brushes my shoulder. My body takes note again. It seems committed to documenting every fact except the relevant ones.

“What are you seeing?” he asks, low.

I tell him. His attention stays on the monitor, but I can feel it on me too, the way you feel a heat lamp you’re not looking at.

Then account 4473 refreshes without a command.

The consignor field goes blank. A small wheel spins. The listed producer disappears, and in the same space, black letters resolve against the white screen.

BARBED CROWN RANCH.

The owner changes while all three of us are looking at it.

Chapter 2

Garrett

The screen says Barbed Crown owns the cattle. Forty seconds ago, it said somebody else did.

Mott takes his hands off the desk and shows me both palms. “That wasn’t me.”

Tessa is already photographing the screen and the clock in its corner. She doesn’t accuse him. She doesn’t look at me for permission. She writes the time in a notebook worn soft at the edges, and I understand that I’m watching somebody who does this for a living and has done it in rooms more hostile than mine.

“Can you preserve the active session?” she asks.

Mott looks at me.

“Answer her.”

“The administrator can export a session log.”

“You’re the administrator,” Tessa says.

“One of them.”