The executive director sat alone in her office on a Thursday evening, the fluorescent lights humming overhead as she spread photographs across her desk. Water stains on drywall. Cracks running through the foundation. Buckling floor tiles in the corridor where clients walked each day to access mental health counseling and family support services. The renovation had been completed four years earlier, celebrated with a ribbon-cutting ceremony attended by the board chair, two municipal councillors, and a representative from the provincial ministry that had contributed grant funding. Now she was trying to piece together what had gone wrong, and more pressingly, what documentation existed to prove what the contractor had promised, what the agency had paid for, and what anyone had known and when. The filing cabinet behind her contained three thin folders. One held a signed contract, though she was not certain it was the final version. Another contained a handful of invoices and progress payment authorizations. The third held photographs from the ribbon-cutting ceremony, smiling faces standing in front of freshly painted walls that would, within eighteen months, begin to show the first signs of failure. Somewhere in the agency's records, there should have been more. There should have been insurance certificates naming the agency as an additional insured. There should have been inspection reports and progress meeting minutes. There should have been a comprehensive photographic record of the foundation work before it was covered by concrete and flooring. None of that existed in any organized form, and as the executive director prepared her report for the upcoming board meeting, she understood that the agency's options for recovery might be constrained not by the merits of its claims but by the gaps in its records.