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Jack bided his time at his desk, sifting through files and dodging weighty looks from The Eagle, whose face kept appearing over the cubicle wall like a Whac-A-Mole. He needed a buffer before venturing into the archives in order to avoid rousing suspicion from his colleagues, which meant giving himself enough time to have theoretically attempted to wrangle a difficult case on his own before requiring some of the knowledge housed within the office basement.

After what felt like enough time had passed, Jack abandoned his desk and made his way to the lobby, giving The Eagle what he hoped was a conspiratorial head tip as he went. It felt only right to throw his cubicle neighbor a bone, and given the way The Eagle’s eyes lit up at the gesture, he appeared to catch that bone in hungry jowls.

As Jack padded down the stairs to the archives, the temperature seemed to chill, growing colder with each step. It was as though the icy archivist beyond had molded her new lair to reflect her demeanor. The door closed behind Jack with a metallic bang, forcing Greta to drag her focus up from her computer screen. She found Jack at the entrance of her domain and her face fell in what could only be the deepest form of annoyance.

“Oh,” said Greta. “It’s you.”

“Just need to see some old case files.” Jack approached the desk with a nonchalant swagger.

“Again.” The word was as sharp as an icicle.

“What can I say?” Jack tried. “Us old-timers are big on research. It’s a dying art, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“I’m not sure I have a choice,” said Greta. “What files are you looking for?”

The hip pocket of Jack’s paisley-printed trousers buzzed against his side, but he ignored it. “I need everything you’ve got on death by plunger bludgeoning.” He’d read an article about one such case back when he was still alive: an on-the-job dispute between plumbers, apparently. It had stuck with Jack ever since, in much the same way the toilet plunger had stuck to the cranium of the victim.

Greta gave him the kind of fixed stare that suggested it would be a particularly colorful cuss word under less professional circumstances. Jack, for his part, continued to smile politely up at her as his pants pocket buzzed again.

“This is for a case?” Greta asked on a barely perceptible sigh.

“Naturally,” said Jack.

Another buzz.

Greta gave a reluctant swivel back toward her desktop and her fingers tip-tapped across the keyboard with the stiff precision of a military march.

“We sure are lucky to have you here,” Jack said as she typed. This prompted a pause in her marching fingers. Her eyes flicked down at him barely long enough to land before returning to the computer screen.

“It was unfortunate to lose Gerard, of course,” Jack carried on, pretending not to notice the way the iciness in the air grew sharper. “But you run a tight ship. We need that around here. It’s almost as if you’ve been in charge of more than the archives before. What branch did you say you transferred in from?”

“I didn’t,” Greta said through teeth clamped so tightly Jack worried one might pop out.

His hip buzzed again.

“No,” Jack said. “I guess you didn’t. Nice of them to lend you out, though. I know how important the archivist role is at S.C.Y.T.H.E., so your old branch must be in a lurch without one. In fact, I’m surprised they let you go at all, since it means they’re down a crucial team member. That means someone must have really pushed for the transfer on your behalf. A director, perhaps.”

Greta’s fair cheeks colored. She kept her eyes glued to the screen.

“I get it,” Jack continued. “This is a great branch. Newly renovated facilities, nice managers, easily accessible information. And if there’s one thing archivists love, it’s information. Files, documents…lists.”

Her head lifted sharply. “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

Yet another buzz. No one was ever this insistent on getting hold of him, but he couldn’t waver now. Not when he was beginning to see the cracks in Greta’s facade.

“You sure about that?” said Jack. “Why are you really here?”

The tendons in Greta’s neck twitched. She chewed her cheek, then said, “The information you’re looking for is in Row 52, section E.”

A sixth buzz. He could continue to push, but there wasn’t much more he could say without tipping his hand. He needed a moment to regroup. To think. To figure out his next move. He gave a tight nod and headed in the direction she pointed.

Tucked into the aisle, sandwiched comfortably between shelves full of paper, Jack rested an arm against a metal rack and recalibrated. Greta’s reaction told him he was on the right track, but the question now was where was she hiding the list? That wasn’t something she was likely to answer no matter how hard he pushed. He’d need to start thinking like Greta. In her shoes, where would he hide something so important? It wasn’t an easy answer to dream up with so little information about the woman. Anyone with common sense would take their stolen goods off the property, and Greta struck him as someone who had a respectable amount of common sense. But without knowing where she lived or spent her time outside of work, it was impossible to speculate where she might have stashed the list.

He could try Brenda again. She may have, rightfully, labelled Greta as terrifying, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know more information about her. After all, she’d have had more interaction with Greta than anyone on Jack’s level.

For that matter, someone like Ian Grant would have even more knowledge about the woman, since they were direct colleagues. Greer wouldn’t be thrilled by the prospect of another visit, but she was the one who most wanted to find the list, so in the end she was sure to come around.