Page 64 of Into the Fire

A single folded sheet of paper was inside.

He withdrew it, flipped it open, and read the short, typed note.

Seven words in, the acid from his coffee began to gurgle in his stomach.

I saw you at Bri’s Sunday night ... and since then. I have photos and video. Flat tires, trees falling ... you’ve been busy. I need a favor. Call me.

A phone number was at the bottom.

Lungs locking, Travis crimped the sheet in his fist and banged his hand against the steering wheel.

No!

This couldn’t be happening!

How could anyone know about those incidents at Bri’s?

Was someone following him?

But that didn’t fit. No one except Marcia knew he was in town.

Was it possible the note sender had just happened to notice him at the duplex and stumbled across an opportunity for blackmail?

The odds of that had to be minuscule. Yet what other explanation could there be? Most people who witnessed suspicious behavior like his would have called the police, reported him. They wouldn’t have used the information to their advantage.

Unless they were up to no good too.

And if they were, he’d played right into their hands.

He spat out an expletive his father had often used during his frequent rants, averting his face as a UPS truck trundled past.

Unfortunately, sitting here bemoaning the situation wasn’t going to fix the problem. Nor could he ignore it. If this person had evidence of his nocturnal activities, he could be dead meat if he didn’t call.

First, though, he’d get a burner phone. This conversation had to be untraceable.

Once he had that in hand, he’d place his call. See if the note was a bluff—or a nightmare.

And if it was the latter, he had a sinking feeling that whatever favor the note writer wanted was only going to make the nightmare worse.

ZIP.

Marc reread the list of jurisdictions he’d agreed to research for Bri. It had taken a while to reach all the people on the contact list, but as Friday wound down, he was officially finished.

And there wasn’t a match on his end.

Nor had there likely been one on hers. If she’d solved the puzzle of Kavanaugh’s list, she’d have called or texted.

But he ought to let her know he was done rather than leave her with any false hope that he might still come up with a name.

Besides, aside from professional consideration, hearing her voice would be a pleasant end to a busy workweek.

Lips bowing, he pulled her number up on his screen and placed the call.

“Hi, Marc.” She answered on the fourth ring, a bit out of breath. “Can you give me a minute?”

“Take your time. My day’s over.” He leaned back in his chair.

In the background, a siren blared—and from the other noises that came over the line it wasn’t hard to figure out where she was.

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