The back room smelled of old wood and the cold still clinging to Gilbert's coat.
He didn't sit. Just laid the photographs out in two rows—Layla's originals on top, satellite prints underneath—and kept his hand flat on the table like he was holding something down that might get away.
Nate pulled the overhead light lower. The chain rattled. The leather of his jacket creaked when he leaned in.
"So." Gilbert's voice had grit in it. Three weeks of no sleep. "Satellite cross-reference. Registry traces. The shells Alex flagged but couldn't prove were connected."
He tapped the first pair. Hard.
"Parking structure on Clover. Layla shot it from the southeast corner." His finger moved to the satellite image beneath it, not quite steady. "Registered address for Blackwood Logistics Annex. Dormant since 2020. Never dissolved. Still on paper. Still there."
Next pair.
