I picked up the leather ledger and tilted it toward the overhead light.

The page caught the glare of the ceiling fixture and shone.

There was no smudging, no dust, no sign of a book that had been opened and closed for five years.

“When did you write this?” I asked Ranata.

“It’s a running total,” she said.

“The ink is blue,” I said.

“Every single entry for five years is the exact same shade of blue, written with the exact same pressure.”

Arthur stopped leaning over the table and looked sideways at the book in my hand.