Either Hartley's been promoted into the field—which means the firm thinks the cold-file desk needs a new generation of operator, which meansme, or Hartley volunteered. Which means the cold-file desk wanted somebody who'd been studying Rogue for years and finally wanted to come collect.
Either way, the file just went hot.
I pick up the phone.
Phantom answers on the second ring. "Talk."
"The sedan came back tonight."
I hear him shift in the bed. "I know. Banshee saw it leave the county road around six."
"Banshee didn't tell me."
"Banshee told me. I was gonna tell you in the mornin'."
I rub my thumb across the corner of the keyboard, calculating the time the message must've come in. "It went back to a Hertz in San Antonio. Different fake name than last time. I ran the lobby footage."
"And?"
I lean back in the chair. "Curt Hartley. Used to be at the firm. Cold-file desk."
There’s a long silence on the other end.
I can hear Phantom breathing. I can hear Marlena breathing softly on the pillow beside him.
I can hear Cal somewhere in the background making the small wet noise infants make in their sleep.
Phantom says, "So they reopened the file."
"Looks like."
"How long you been sittin' on this?"
"A week."
Another silence. Shorter. "Don't sit on the next one, brother."
"I won't."
"Church at seven. Patched only."
"Yeah."
"You good?"
I think about the answer for a second.
I’m not, but he doesn’t need to be bothered with the bullshit in my mind.
I say, "I'm good."
"Liar."
He hangs up.
I don't sleep.
I sit at the monitors for another hour. Run Hartley through every cross-reference I still have and get next to nothing.
