The brittle carbon paper crinkled between Julian’s fingertips like dried autumn leaves.
In his right hand, the beam of his 365nm ultraviolet detector pen cut through the dim, cold air of Amphitheater B, painting the yellowed paper in stark violet and electric blue.
Julian Vance’s hands rarely shook.
He had faced armed robbery suspects at the Starlight Mart counter without dropping a five-dollar bill. He had held his ground four inches from the crackling copper lance of Dr. Corvo. But as he looked down at the faded carbon flimsy resting in the bottom of the 1928 ledger tray, his thumb trembled against the metal casing of the pen.
The paper was an engineering carbon sheet from October 21, 1996.
It bore the distinctive, pale-blue eighth-inch grid of a municipal draftsman’s pad. Even after twenty-eight years sealed beneath the false floor of the stenographer’s desk, the fibers still carried the faint, unmistakable scent of cedar pencil shavings, vintage graphite dust, and machine oil.
It was the smell of Julian’s earliest childhood.
“Julian?” Lin Mei whispered, stepping up beside his right elbow. Her cracked tortoiseshell glasses reflected the purple glare.
