The archive store stood behind the office building. Its door was held shut with a piece of rope instead of a lock. Rose stood in the doorway with a thick register under her arm. She would not let Daniel enter until he showed her the written request signed by Madam Nansubuga.
“We are not looking for someone to blame,” Daniel said.
Rose looked at him. “Everyone who says that has already decided who is to blame.”
Moses handed her the copy. “We are requesting an inventory of personnel forms removed for the payroll update, and the sign-out record if one exists. No one will take a file.”
Rose read every line, then opened the door. The smell of dry paper and old wood met them. Cabinets held boxes arranged by year. A second row contained personnel forms that had been removed in batches.
Daniel stood behind the line Rose indicated. His name appeared in the previous year’s index. Rose brought out the box, placed it on the table, and began counting folders aloud.
“Kato, Daniel. Lwanga, Peter. No Bwire, Charles.”
“Charles is not staff,” Moses said.
“I know. I am looking for the access record.”
The sign-out sheet showed four dates. One was the day teachers had been asked to bring copies of their identification and signatures for the payroll update. Rose’s name was written beside it, but the final line was in a different ink.
Daniel asked to see his folder. Rose reminded him that he could inspect only the permitted pages. Inside were his employment form, a payroll update, and an old leave request. His signature from that year had a broad curve at the end. The signature on the transfer letter had the same curve, but the pen stopped abruptly, as if the final stroke had been lifted from an image.
Moses moved closer. “Look at the pen break.”
Rose stopped him. “Do not put your finger on the page.”
“I have not.”
Daniel opened his phone, but did not take a photograph until Rose marked the permitted page. Once she did, he took only two pictures: the old form and the section of the register showing the folder number. He did not photograph the transfer letter in his own file; his home copy was already in his evidence folder.
Rose turned the sign-out pages. That date listed four employees and a large blank space beneath them. The last name had been crossed out with one pen stroke. Under it, someone had written *bulk copy — payroll*. There was no signature from the person who took the box and no time of return.
“Is this normal?” Daniel asked.
Rose closed her eyes for a second. “It was normal before we had to learn what normal meant. When the payroll update came, many people went in and out. I was given a list, not a record of every paper that left.”
“Did you see my signature being copied?”
“No.”
Her answer was sharp because it was true. Daniel felt rejected, then reminded himself that he had not come for someone’s feelings. He had come for the chain of paper.
Moses looked at the lower part of the register. “One number is missing.”
Rose took a ruler and followed the entries. Box 14 had been taken out. Box 15 had been returned. Box 16 had no return entry. In the current inventory, Box 16 was present, but its seal was newer than the seals around it.
“Was it moved?” Daniel asked.
“Or opened here,” Rose said.
Peter, who had remained outside, entered after knocking. “I brought the complaint reference.”
Rose’s face tightened when she saw him. Peter placed the paper on the table, away from the folders.
“I did not come to look for my file,” he said. “I only want the recipient’s name in my transaction confirmed.”
Rose looked at Daniel, then opened the archive register again. “The two of you are putting me in a matter that could take me before the board.”
“That is why we want everything written down,” Daniel said. “If you stay silent, other people will speak for you.”
Rose did not answer. She took out a preservation request. In the reason section, Daniel wrote: *possible unauthorized copying of personnel signature samples; request to preserve available access records and CCTV where applicable.* Moses read the words and asked whether Daniel was ready to put the school’s name on the request.
“If access was weak, it is part of the truth,” Daniel said.
Rose signed as a witness, not as a suspect. As she wrote the date, her pen began to fail. She looked at it and said, “There was a day when I signed an after-hours receipt. I thought it was for a district courier. I do not know whether it was this box.”
Daniel did not press her to explain further in front of Peter. He asked her to put the information in a formal statement.
Rose closed the box, returned it to the cabinet, and placed another seal over it. Before they left, she opened the register once more and showed Daniel the scratched line beneath his name: *Kato — copy.*
In the middle of the erased words, a paper number had disappeared completely.
Daniel wrote it down, then asked whether there was a log for the person who had made the bulk copies that day. Rose said the photocopier log was kept in the accounts room, but it had not always been preserved. She did not promise that it could be found.
“Do not search for the answer you want,” Rose said. “Search for what remains even when someone says they do not remember.”
Daniel agreed. With her permission, he photographed the new seal, added the box number to the preservation request, and asked Moses to record the time they entered and left. Peter read everything they had written, then signed his own statement. He did not want to appear to be standing aside, waiting for Daniel to rescue him.
As they left, Rose tied the door shut and wrote *DO NOT OPEN — REQUEST PENDING* on a paper held beneath a stone. Above the paper, a small ink mark showed that someone had reached the archive after working hours.
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