Pull yourself together, Greg.
He held the clipboard normally and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was large and very still. Metalshelving units stretched from floor to ceiling, arranged in rows that disappeared into a dim distance where the fluorescent lights had apparently given up. Everything was coated in dust—the shelves, the files, the single desk near the entrance where a reaper sat reading a book.
The reaper at the desk was old. Not in appearance—reapers didn't age—but Greg could tell by the way she held herself. Settled. Compressed by time into something dense and immovable, like a rock formation that had developed opinions. Her nameplate said EDA.
She didn't look up.
“Can I help you?” she asked the page she was reading.
“Yes,” Greg said. “I'm here to access files for an investigation. An official investigation.”
He hadn't needed to say “official,” and now the word hung in the air, immediately suspicious.
“Which files?”
Don't say Um.
“U-” Greg opened his mouth and immediately cut himself off.
Eda still did not look up.
Greg tried again. “I need files about cases involving supernatural interference with scheduled collections.” There, that sounded reasonable.
“Row fourteen,” Eda said, turning a page. “Section C through F. Organized by century.”
“By century?”
“There are a lot of them.”
Greg processed that. “How many is a lot?”
“More than you'd think.” She turned another page. “Fewer than there should be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means most cases get resolvedbefore they make it to the archives.” She still kept her attention on her book. “The ones back there are the ones that didn't resolve without Oversight.”
Greg waited, hoping she'd elaborate. She did not.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Mmhm.”
“I'll just... go to row fourteen, then.”
“That's where the files are.”
“Right.”
He turned toward the shelves, then turned back. “Is there a— do I need to sign in, or?—”
“No.”
“Is there a log of some kind? For security purposes?”
“There's no log.”
