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She released a groan. “Tomorrow morning. Ten a.m.”
I’d been hoping for tomorrow night, but I didn’t feel like I was in a position to negotiate. “Thank you.”
“So do you still want me to get you information about Barry Sylvester and his son Danny?”
I knew someone who probably already had the information. It would fucking kill me to ask him. But, given the deadline, I suspected I was going to need his help. “No. I’ll take care of it.”
“What about Drew?”
“I’m gonna talk to Drew.”
“Be careful, Harper.”
“I plan to meet him in public. I’ll let you know what I discover.”
I hung up and stared out the windshield, refusing to look at the photo on the seat next to me.
It was obviously a photo from the crime scene, so where had it come from? Was Barry Sylvester stalking me? Had Drew suspected and that’s why he was back?
There was one way to possibly find out. I texted Nate and asked if he had Drew’s number.
He called me back within a seconds.
“Why do you need to talk to Drew? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I lied. “I have some questions about the Jackson Creek Police Department and thought he might be willing to answer some of them.”
“I’m sure he’d be willing to talk. I’ll text the number to you.”
“Thanks.”
I texted Drew a request to meet and then called Carter Hale. I wasn’t ready to jump back into the deep end with Malcolm just yet. Better to dip my toes in with his attorney.
“I hear you got some information from John Michael Stevens,” Hale drawled when he answered.
“And now I’m calling to find out what you found out about Barry Sylvester and his son.”
He chuckled.
“Chief Larson confirmed that Sylvester warned Stevens. What did you find out about Sylvester?” I pressed.
He hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m sure Malcolm will tell you what he knows.”
He was setting boundaries. While Malcolm and I shared our attorney, he was footing the bill, and he’d requested the information. Not me. Still, it did confirm he was getting the info from Hale.
“I need to talk to him then.”
“I’m not his receptionist.”
“Do you know where he went after we left the prison?”
“Again,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m not his—”
“Got it,” I grumped. “I know he’s staying away from the tavern.”
