Something was tugging at my subconscious, and so I ran the recording through a second time. Then it hit me. There—when Montoya turned to stare at a pretty blond elf in a tight red dress. When she glanced at him, he raised one hand to run the fingers through his hair in an instinctive preening motion. As he did, the sleeve of his short-sleeved shirt lifted just enough to show a round, whitish mark on his right bicep. The first few times through, I’d taken it to be a scar, but now I realized that it was too symmetrical, too perfectly circular. If anything, it reminded me of an embossed design on leather. The mark showed only for a second, and then Montoya dropped his arm and the sleeve hid it again.