Chapter 2: 消失的档案

The rain had not ceased. Laya Defour crouched at the edge of the drainage ditch, her fingers trembling as she brushed the mud from the documents. The crimson glows had long since vanished into the darkness, leaving her only with the chilling sensation of her soaked shirt plastered to her spine and a deep-seated terror of being watched by a predator. In the distance, thunder rumbled; rain hammered against the asphalt, scattering fine white mist that blurred her vision. She knew that continuing to dig here would only cause the evidence to rot entirely, or even make her the next victim erased from the record. She had to pivot to written evidence—the silent testimonies hidden between paper pages were far harder to tamper with than the ghosts beneath the sea. She quickly sealed the remaining fragments of film into a waterproof bag and stood. Rainwater dripped from the tips of her hair, carving transparent trails across her resolute face. She took a deep breath. The cold air stung her lungs, but it kept her clear for a moment.

The next morning, pale sunlight pierced the towering floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hôtel Garnier, illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air of the archives. The light refracted between the glass and the particles, casting a sickly golden hue, as if time itself had congealed here. Laya entered through the heavy oak door, wearing her dual identity as an insurance claims investigator, clutching tightly to a summons bearing an official seal. This was not the hotel lobby, alive with the bustle of guests, but a static space sealed off from time, the air thick with the distinctive smell of aging paper and turpentine. The scent was dry and sharp, piercing her nostries and triggering a visceral rejection of the damp, rotting atmosphere of the previous night. Ignoring the scrutinizing gaze of the front desk staff, she strode directly toward the depths, her target clear and unyielding. The click of her high heels on the marble floor echoed through the empty corridor, sounding particularly lonely.

Archivist Claire Perret sat among the towering iron bookshelves, her fingertips lightly grazing a row of yellowed files. The boxes stacked on the shelves resembled silent tombstones, layered within the shadows. Sensing the footsteps halt, she did not look up. Instead, she surveyed the newcomer through the rims of her gold-rimmed glasses, her eyes sharp yet restrained. The gaze behind the lenses was cold as ice, devoid of any ripple. Only when Laya produced her identification did Claire’s slender fingers finally move, withdrawing a dusty archive box from the shelf. Dust swirled in the light like a miniature avalanche. Inside was not the complete blueprint expected, but a deliberate void, as if someone had used a scalpel to precisely excise an organ.

Claire pushed the archive box to the center of the desk, her voice calm as a weather report. “The original structural plans for Room Seven are not here. Look, the cut is right here.” She flipped open the backing board at the bottom of the box and tapped the flat, empty space with her knuckles. “This is a gap left thirty years ago; the signs of human excision are obvious. The fiber fractures are too clean to be natural wear.” Laya leaned in to inspect. That familiar scent of decay once again assaulted her senses, mixed with the mustiness of old paper, inducing a brief wave of vertigo.

“I need to know where that page went,” Laya said, locking eyes with Claire, her tone unequivocal. “Was it transferred to the Municipal Planning Bureau, or destroyed internally? Please provide all transfer records. It is a legal obligation.” Claire shook her head lightly, a faint coldness curling at the corner of her mouth. “This is a historical classification issue involving multiple parties’ privacy. Internal transfer records have long since been lost. Miss Insurance Investigator, some walls should not be tapped on carelessly.” Her tone, though flat, exuded a deep-seated arrogance and closed-offness.

At that moment, the steady sound of high heels broke the silence. Audrey Arnaud, the hotel manager renowned for her caution and sternness, slid into the shadow of the archives in a well-tailored dark gray suit, her steps making no sound. Her leather shoes barely touched the floor, yet they carried a suffocating pressure. She did not look at Laya; instead, she cast a cold glance over Claire’s workbench. “Claire, do not trouble our guest. Miss Defour, the hotel’s reputation rests on its careful guardianship of its history. That era involves complex marital interests and should not be made public.”

Laya did not flinch. Instead, she pulled a stack of comparative samples from her briefcase. “Manager Arnaud, I understand your concerns, but absence does not equal non-existence. Please compare the paper characteristics of Rooms Six and Eight from the same period. If a single document were simply lost, why are all other archives from that time preserved intact? This selective absence lacks logical support; it looks more like a deliberate concealment.” Her words struck like a sword, hitting the heart of the other’s defense.

Audrey’s expression changed slightly. Just as she was about to cut off the discussion, a hunched figure suddenly emerged from the shadows of the side door. Colette Lacombe, a senior member of the Old Books Merchants Guild, spoke with a raspy, skeptical voice. “Excessive sensitivity often implies excessive guilt. Claire, what you are guarding is not secrets, but evidence of crime. Thirty years have passed, and you are still using such a crude excuse as ‘lost’?” Her body was slightly hunched, like an old tree bent by the wind, yet a fire that refused to extinguish burned in her eyes.

Clair did not refute the elder. Instead, she swiftly handed a magnifying glass to Laya Defour, pointing to the cut edge of the document. “Note the flatness of the incision here. If a historical archive were lost due to age, the edges would display a frayed, fiber-teared texture. But this cut is too clean, as if completed with the aid of a modern steel ruler. The paper fibers present an abnormal mix of old and new; the outer layer is yellowed, aged paper, while the inner layer possesses a resilience and sheen that shouldn’t be there.”

A shock rippled through Laya’s heart as she keenly caught this fatal detail. She picked up the magnifying glass, her gaze moving across the microscopic fibers, and immediately deduced the truth. “This isn’t loss; it’s forgery. Someone used new paper to patch the surface of the archive, then deliberately snipped out the key pages to create the illusion of ‘historical loss,’ concealing the tampered core information. This is a carefully designed legal trap.”

Clair set down her tools, a hint of tremor entering her voice for the first time. “Confirmed. I just performed a preliminary chemical test. The paper base on that page contains a modern polyethylene coating. In an underground archive from thirty years ago—characterized by high humidity and no sterile environment—this coating could not have naturally appeared. This is unequivocal forgery, intended to confuse the timeline.”

Laya rapidly linked the chain of evidence in her mind, pointing to that core node. “It all connects now. The purpose of the forgery is to legally whitewash the source of that unknown fortune. By marking the key evidence as ‘missing,’ you successfully blocked the path to tracing the flow of funds during the era of the aristocratic marriages. How much of Antoine Vayan’s sponsorship back then ended up as clean assets in your hands?”

Audrey Arnaud finally settled into her chair, her fingers lightly tapping the desk as she issued the ultimatum. “Miss Laya, you can continue to dig, or you can stop. We can offer you a high-salary consultant position that would secure your standing in the industry, plus a hefty consulting fee. Innocence is important, but at this moment, ceasing your inquiries is the greatest protection for your career.”

Laya let out a cold laugh, her eyes as icy as iron. “I do not need the reward from a co-conspirator. My innocence is built on evidence, not bribery with money. I refuse to become one link in your chain of silence. I reject this transaction.” She stood up, photographing the test data to archive it. Her movements were crisp and resolute, thoroughly crushing the other party’s attempt to buy her off.

Colette Lacombe sighed, her voice low as she revealed a secret. “My family has carried half a century of guilt for a similar cover-up. The marriage ceremonies of that era were not just unions of emotion; they were massive rituals of wealth transfer. Room No. 7 was the legal witness to that transaction.” His words added a heavy historical weight to this chain of evidence.

Just as the atmosphere hung in a stalemate, Clair suddenly pulled a yellowed, related document from the depths of a drawer, her movements hurried and secretive. “Wait. I found that this isn’t just a blueprint issue. This parallel case file regarding the disappearance of Room No. 7 contains three mutually contradictory testimonies. The records on how many people entered that night are vastly different. The truth is far more complex than the blueprints suggest; another name is locked within.”

Laya leaned sharply toward the yellowed file, her fingertips turning white from extreme tension. The rough texture of the paper scraped against her pads like sandpaper. The ink blots were clearly visible, and one signature, steady in pressure, had been forcibly torn away at the corner. Her gaze locked dead on that incomplete letter, and Clair’s earlier cold remark about “anachronistic paper” flashed through her mind—it was not a simple archival gap, but a meticulously planned displacement of time and space.

“Another name?” Laya’s voice trembled slightly as she tried to find complete clues in the broken gaps of the document.

Clair did not answer. She slowly closed the drawer, the “click” of the metal slide in the silent archive room sounding abnormally harsh, as if a door leading to the truth had been shut. She stood up, turning her back to Laya to adjust her collar, her tone carrying a suffocating coldness. “You saw the ‘other name,’ but you didn’t see who the ‘first name’ belongs to. That snipped blueprint originally belonged to Antoine Vayan’s private fund. He wasn’t just a sponsor; he was the ultimate beneficiary of that transaction. And that torn signature belongs to the notary responsible for verification back then—my father.”

Struck as if by lightning, Laya froze. Her father? The elder depicted as kind and benevolent in the hotel’s history? He wasn’t just a recorder of history; he was an accomplice to the forgery. Those seemingly contradictory testimonies were merely a double trap set by the father and daughter to cover up the same crime.

“You’re lying.” Laya suppressed the surging emotions, her heart beating like a drum, even as she spoke. “Clair, are you confessing now, or further manipulating me?”

“I never manipulate; I only state facts.” Clair turned around. Those eyes, usually full of irony, were now empty, like two dry wells. “You think you’re investigating the hotel’s dark history? No, Laya. You’re digging up the foundation of this building. And if you continue, you will dig up not just my father, but also the ‘settlement agreement’ that your own father signed and sealed years ago.”

With a boom in her head, Laya’s mind went blank. Her father? That deceased father she had considered upright and innocent? He was a co-conspirator too?

Outside the window, thunder rumbled in, a deluge of rain poised to break. The light in the archive room flickered once, then died completely. Darkness surged like a tide, swallowing the two of them whole. In that suffocating silence, Laya heard her own heartbeat gradually merge with the rain lashing outside, while the voice screaming endlessly in her mind remained terrifyingly clear: You think you are seeking innocence, but in fact you are personally pulling away the veil, exposing to the entire world the blood debt flowing in your veins.