Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YHR8YQFNHP4RM0TCDXNAEB

Rory opened the door with Ptolemy wedged between her ankles. Lucien stood on the landing, one hand on his ivory-handled cane. Rain darkened the shoulders of his charcoal suit. His platinum hair, slicked back from his face, had escaped its order at one temple. Neither of them spoke. Ptolemy stepped over the threshold and inspected Lucien’s shoe. “Eva isn’t here.” Rory bent to scoop up the cat. “You’ve had a wasted journey.” “I came to see you.” “Then you’ve had two.” She started to close the door. Lucien put his cane across the gap, its rubber tip against the frame. “Move that.” He withdrew it. He did not step away. “I need your help with a document.” “There are solicitors for that.” “Your signature is on it.” Rory held the cat against her chest. Ptolemy objected with a low, gravelly noise. “What document?” Lucien reached into his inside pocket. Rory’s grip tightened before she could stop it. He noticed; his hand paused. “Paper,” he said. “I can see your pocket. Get it out.” He unfolded a sheet and held it under the landing light. The heading read CONSENT TO TRANSFER. Beneath it sat a block of dense text and a signature that resembled hers, right down to the long tail on the final r. Rory shifted Ptolemy into one arm and took the page. The signature looked convincing at first glance. The capital A leaned right, though hers leaned left. Whoever had copied it had also missed the small break where her pen tended to lift between the o and the r. The body of the document made less sense. It named her as the consenting owner of a sealed box held at an address in Whitechapel. It gave permission for the box and its contents to pass into the custody of a company called Ashdown Holdings. “I don’t own a box in Whitechapel.” “I know.” “How?” “Because I own it.” Rory looked up. Lucien’s amber eye caught the light. His other eye remained black. “Then why does it have my name on it?” “Eva registered it for me. The clerk required a human name, and she used yours.” Rory stared at him. “She didn’t tell you?” “No.” “That was careless of her.” “You don’t get to decide that.” Ptolemy stretched a paw towards the paper. Rory set him down before he could shred it and read the address again. “I’ve never signed anything like this.” “I believed that.” “Did you ask Eva?” “I went to her office. She wasn’t there.” “She’s in Bristol until tomorrow.” “I know that now.” “And you knew I’d be here?” “Yu-Fei told me you were feeding the cat.” Rory folded the page once. “You could have rung.” “You don’t answer my calls.” She glanced at him. “There’s a reason for that.” “I remember it.” The smell of fried onions drifted up from the curry house below. A door banged at the foot of the stairs, followed by footsteps and a burst of laughter. Lucien stepped aside to make room for two neighbours climbing past. One of them greeted Rory and gave Lucien’s suit a curious look. Rory waited until they reached the next flight. “Give me five minutes with Eva’s notes,” Lucien said. “She kept the registration receipt. I need the number on it.” “What happens if you don’t get it?” “Ashdown takes the box. The transfer goes through at eleven.” “What’s in the box?” “Records.” “Of what?” “Debts. Names. Payments.” “Yours?” “Some.” She looked at the forged signature again. Her name had no business on any of it. Neither did Eva’s, though Eva had managed that part herself. “What happens if Ashdown gets those names?” “People pay debts they’ve already settled. Some of them won’t be given the chance to argue.” Rory handed the page back. “And the receipt stops that?” “The original registration overrides a transfer if the owner disputes it in person.” “You said you owned the box.” “I put it in Eva’s name. She put it in yours.” “Excellent work from both of you.” Lucien accepted the criticism without a flicker. That annoyed her more than an argument would have. “I can dispute it,” she went on, “but you need the registration number.” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you say that at the door?” “I thought you might prefer an explanation before a request.” “You put a cane in my door. Your manners had already suffered.” He looked down at the ivory handle. “I was wrong to do that.” Rory stepped back. “Leave it on the landing.” His hand tightened on the handle. “The blade stays outside,” she said. “You can fetch it when you leave.” After a moment, he rested the cane against the wall. Rory took the forged transfer from him and let him through. The flat smelled of cardamom, cat food and old paper. Books covered the narrow hall table in stacks, with scrolls balanced across them like rolling pins. Eva had left a mug beside the sofa with three pens and a dried teabag inside it. Rory had cleared a space at one end of the table for her takeaway and had eaten half of it before the knock. Ptolemy returned to his bowl. Lucien shut the door, and Rory slid all three deadbolts into place. “Which notes?” she asked. “Eva kept the receipt with her research on storage sites.” “That narrows it down to every surface in the flat.” Lucien took in the piles. “She had a blue folder.” “Blue folder. Fine.” Rory moved to the table and lifted a stack of notebooks. Lucien reached for a roll of parchment on the armchair. “Ask before you open anything.” He lowered it. “May I?” “Not that one. It’s a list of people Eva doesn’t trust.” “Am I on it?” “Yes.” “Near the top?” “She alphabetised it.” His mouth shifted. Rory turned away before she could smile. She found a blue folder under a book about Roman burial practices. Inside were photographs of drain covers, several maps and a shopping receipt for milk. “Wrong one,” she said. Lucien stood beside the sofa, his hands at his sides. “You can search the shelf by the window,” Rory told him. “Leave the envelopes shut.” He went to the shelf. Ptolemy abandoned his food and followed, rubbing against Lucien’s trouser leg. Lucien looked down as though he had encountered a difficult client. “He likes you,” Rory said. “He likes the smell of the fish I had for lunch.” “You can both be right.” Lucien crouched and offered the cat two fingers. Ptolemy sniffed them, then rubbed his cheek against his knuckles. Rory remembered those hands at the back of her neck, the pressure of his thumb beneath her ear. She put the folder down harder than she meant to. A loose photograph slipped onto the floor. Lucien rose to pick it up. Rory reached it first. “I’ve got it.” He stepped back. “You don’t have to flinch every time I come near you.” “I didn’t flinch.” “You moved.” “People do.” He returned to the shelf. Rory put the photograph away, but she no longer knew which folder it had come from. For four months, Lucien had occupied a particular part of her life: late dinners after her delivery shifts, conversations that began with work and stretched across a table until the restaurant staff stacked chairs around them, his coat over her shoulders when she had forgotten hers. Then Evan’s solicitor had called, and Lucien had given him the address of the bar beneath her flat. A single address. Evan had appeared there the next afternoon. Rory had spotted him through the window before he saw her. Silas had locked the door and told him to leave. She still remembered the shape of Evan’s hand against the glass, his fingers spread, his mouth moving around her name. She opened another folder. “You told me the solicitor had a court order,” she said. Lucien stopped searching. “I told you I believed he had one.” “You didn’t ask to see it.” “No.” “You didn’t ask me either.” “No.” Rory turned a page. She could not read the writing on it; the letters ran together. She set it aside. “He used your name when he spoke to Silas. He told him you’d sent him.” “I know.” “Do you? Because when I told you, you asked whether Evan had touched me.” Lucien’s face tightened. “I wanted to know if he had hurt you.” “He had. You knew what he’d done before I came to London.” “I meant that afternoon.” “I know what you meant. I had to explain why the answer didn’t make it better.” Ptolemy jumped onto the sofa between them and began washing a paw. Lucien drew a breath. “I gave him your address because he told me there were papers that needed serving. I thought I was keeping you out of a larger legal problem.” “You thought you knew better than I did.” “Yes.” The word landed without a defence attached. Rory had wanted it months ago. Now she picked up a map and smoothed its folded edge. “I changed my route home for weeks,” she said. “I checked every car outside the bar. I hated that he could still make me do that.” Lucien leaned against the shelf, leaving the books untouched. “I went to his office.” “I know. His solicitor rang me to complain.” “I wanted the address removed from his records.” “You threatened him.” “I did.” “You don’t get to fix that by frightening someone on my behalf.” “I understand.” “Do you?” He met her eyes. “I understand that I made another decision for you.” Rory pressed her palm against the map. The small crescent scar on her wrist showed beneath her sleeve. Lucien’s gaze dropped to it, then returned to her face. “I missed you,” he said. The map crackled under her hand. “That doesn’t change what you did.” “I know.” “You could have put that in one of your messages instead of sending me the name of a locksmith.” “I sent the locksmith because you needed new locks.” “Silas had already changed them.” “I found that out when he threw me out.” Rory looked at him. “He threw you out?” “He used the word ‘ushered’.” Despite herself, she let out a short laugh. Lucien’s expression softened, and she held up a hand. “Don’t make anything of that.” “I won’t.” He went back to the shelf. Rory searched beneath a heap of scrolls and found a second blue folder, this one swollen with receipts and typed forms. “Here.” Lucien crossed the room, then stopped at the edge of the table. Rory opened the folder. The first page bore Eva’s handwriting, sloping across the top: WHITECHAPEL STORAGE. “There’s a date,” Rory said. “Six months ago.” “That fits.” She turned the page. A receipt had been stapled to a copy of a registration form. Her name appeared in the owner’s box, written in Eva’s hand. Rory took out her phone and photographed it. “I’m sending this to her.” “Of course.” “And I’m asking why she thought she could register your box under my name.” “I’d like to hear the answer.” “You can wait until I’ve finished asking.” She sent the photograph with a message, then read the receipt. The registration number ran along the bottom, stamped in red. “Is that what you need?” Lucien bent closer. His sleeve brushed her arm. Neither of them moved for a moment. “Yes,” he said. Rory pulled the receipt free of the staple and held it up. “You said the owner had to dispute the transfer in person.” “At the storage office.” “So you need me there too.” “I do.” “You could have mentioned that before I let you in.” “I thought you might close the door.” “I did close the door.” “You know what I mean.” She set the receipt on the table between them. “You don’t get to leave out the part that costs me time because you’re worried about my answer.” Lucien looked at the paper. “No. I don’t.” Her phone buzzed. Eva’s reply appeared beneath the photograph. I was going to tell you. Please don’t bin my notes. Rory typed back: You can explain the box first. Lucien watched her thumb move over the screen. “What did she say?” “She’s concerned about her notes.” “That sounds like Eva.” Rory glanced at the clock above the kitchen doorway. Ten seventeen. Her delivery shift started at noon, and she had promised Yu-Fei she would cover the lunch orders. “How far is this office?” “Fifteen minutes by car.” “And how long inside?” “If the clerk accepts the receipt, ten.” Rory picked up the forged transfer. “You’ve dealt with this clerk before?” “Yes.” “Will he accept a copy, or does he need the original?” “The original.” She looked at the staple holes, then at Eva’s overcrowded table. “Get me an envelope,” she said. Lucien found one beside the mug. He held it open while Rory slid the receipt inside. Their fingers touched at the flap. His hand remained where it was, giving her room to withdraw hers. She pressed the flap down. “I’m coming because my name is on it,” she said. “Not because you asked.” “I understand.” “And when we get there, I do the talking about the transfer.” Lucien took his hand off the envelope. “What would you like me to do?” Rory picked up the forged document and pointed to the company name. “Start by telling me who owns Ashdown.”