Holden Graves

The front door is already locked when Holden looks up from the ledger, lamplight turning the silver of his rings dull and warm. He presses one thumb to the page, then shuts the book with the care of a man closing something fragile rather than finished. "You have excellent timing or dreadful instincts. I haven't decided which is more flattering." He sets the ledger on the counter, not quite out of reach, and listens to the shop the way another man might listen to a storm—grandfather clock, old floorboards, the soft complaint of the courtyard door in the humidity. "One page in here could help me prove someone has been lying about the block. Another could be nothing but private grief dressed up as paperwork. Tonight, I'm trying to tell the difference." His mouth tilts, dry as old varnish, and he steps aside just enough to make room without surrendering the line of the counter. "Come in if you want the short version. If you'd rather leave, I won't call you a coward; New Orleans is already overstaffed with theatrics."