Chapter 2

I caught Owen before he reached the security doors, and the witnesses leaving behind us split around my outstretched arm.

Owen, the junior inspector I trained, stopped beside the steel security tray. Through the open hearing-room door, the projected printout of the bound inspection log still covered the wall. My signature sat below PASSED, while the date I had written was gone.

“Tell me who changed it.”

A witness pushed through the doors, and the hinges gave a hard metal knock. Owen watched the man leave instead of looking at me. I peeled the visitor sticker from my coat and folded it over my clipped credential number.

“The date was corrected. That happens when an inspection carries into another visit.”

“There was no other visit.”

The hearing-room projector washed the corridor tiles blue. I pointed through the doorway at the conclusion above my name. The word filled half the wall, too large for Owen to hide behind a missed box or a bad copy.

“You approved the system before we left,” he said. “The date only had to match the completed work.”

I pulled the folded sticker apart. Its glue lifted threads from my coat, leaving my number split between both halves. I had written FAILED while Owen stood at my shoulder. I had made him read the pressure gauge twice because the pump dropped below the required level.

“What did I tell you beside the pump?”

“That you wanted another test.”

“I told you the system failed.”

A guard waved two witnesses toward the scanner. Their bags rolled through between us, buckles striking the plastic sides. Owen moved back to clear the belt, and the projected word caught across his face when he entered the light from the doorway.

“The repair crew was already there,” he said. “You said the fault was obvious and they knew what to do.”

“The repair crew did not fix it while we were there. I wrote the result before I tore out my copy.”

Owen pinched his security pass by its edge and held it away from his body. I had taught him never to certify work he had not seen. I had also taught him that a witness line meant he had watched the inspector write every entry above it.

I blocked the scanner lane with the empty tray. “Why didn’t you call me before you countersigned?”

His pass struck the zipper of his jacket. The small click made him glance toward the hearing room, where the company representative stood under my enlarged signature and spoke quietly to counsel.

“Because you had approved it,” Owen said. “Calling would only have confused the record.”

“You had my number. You had worked beside me for fourteen months. You knew I would answer.”

A reporter slowed near the doors. Owen noticed her notebook and lowered his voice. I dragged the tray off the belt and held it against my hip, forcing him either to answer me or walk around the question in front of her.

“You weren’t remembering things clearly after the fire,” he said. “None of us were.”

“The date was changed before the fire.”

His eyes left mine and fixed on the broken visitor sticker in my hand. Behind him, my clipped badge remained visible on the hearing-room table. Its missing corner aimed at the date they had put over mine.

“You keep saying that because someone died,” Owen said. “Guilt can make a person certain about things that didn’t happen.”

I laid both halves of the sticker in the tray, number facing up. “The stockroom worker died because the system failed. You helped turn that failure into my approval.”

The security doors opened again. Three witnesses came through, then stopped when Owen did not move aside. He pressed his pass to the reader without looking at it. The panel flashed red.

I pushed the tray onto the belt and sent my split number through the scanner. “Who told you to change my entry?”

Owen pressed the pass to the reader again. This time the light turned green, but he stayed inside the doorway, holding the door open while the alarm counted each second.

“You signed it, Rachel,” Owen says. “I only made sure nobody could pretend you hadn't.”