Chapter 7: The County Records Office
The county records office sat in the center of town inside a faded brick building with tall, arched windows and a heavy double door made of brass and oak. When Jax pushed the door open, the sound of the squeaking hinges echoed off the high plaster ceilings, drawing the irritated glare of a receptionist sitting behind a high counter cluttered with stacked file folders. The air inside smelled of damp dust, old paper, and industrial floor wax, a distinct institutional odor that made me instinctively reach out and grab the corner of Jax’s leather vest.
“Visiting hours for public records ended ten minutes ago,” the receptionist said without looking up from her computer screen, her fingers clacking away at a noisy plastic keyboard. Jax didn't say a word. He simply stepped up to the counter and placed his heavy, tattooed palm flat against the smooth wood, the sheer size and weight of his presence commanding an immediate change in the room’s atmosphere.
The receptionist finally raised her chin, her eyes darting from Jax’s intimidating beard and leather vest up to his steady, unblinking gaze. She swallowed hard, her fingers freezing over the keys as she recognized the man standing in front of her. Everyone in this county knew who Jax was, even if they only spoke his name in hushed whispers down at the local taverns. “Mr. Miller,” she murmured, her voice losing its previous administrative sharpness. “We don’t usually see you down in municipal records.”
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“I’m looking for a man named Arthur Henderson,” Jax said, his voice flat, controlled, and carrying a quiet menace that made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. “He was supposed to be handling a lease dispute with a Sarah Jenkins this afternoon. Where’s his office?”
The receptionist pointed a trembling finger down a narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway to the left, her eyes wide with nervous apprehension. “End of the hall, room 14B. But I should tell you, he’s got visitors in there right now—some men from out of town who were asking about local property debts.” Jax didn't wait to hear another word. He turned on his heel, motioning for me to stay close, and marched resolutely down the linoleum hallway toward the heavy wooden door marked with peeling brass numbers.
