“I know your byline.”
Farrow waited until they finished shaking. Then he looked at me.
“Dane. You’re running him?”
“Yes.”
“Only you?”
“For now.”
Farrow tipped his head a fraction toward Cabot. “Mr. Cabot, good to meet you.”
“Mr.—“
“Blaise Farrow. Most simply call me Farrow.”
The door opened behind me. A prickle ran up the back of my neck. Eamon Price had arrived.
He entered without ceremony, pulling the door shut. Cabot straightened a little. Wiley stopped turning his pen.
“Sit, everyone,” Eamon said.
I took the chair beside Cabot and angled it so I could see the door, the glass behind Wiley, and Farrow in the corner of my eye. Farrow sat close to Wiley, with his back to the wall.
Eamon set a thin folder on the table and didn’t open it.
“Two weeks ago,” he said, “the Harcourt family began receiving threats. They were hand-written and anonymous, mailed to four separate addresses over a ten-day window.”
Cabot’s pen stopped above his notebook. “USPS.”
“Yes.”
“Nobody mails anything anymore.”
“That’s the first interesting element.”
Wiley leaned forward. “What’s the second?”
“The messages are coherent and grammatically correct. It’s the same voice across all four. They read almost like they hired a professional editor.”
“Drafted,” Wiley said. “Drafted, edited, printed, and then mailed. That’s a process.”
“Yes.”
Cabot tapped a finger on the table. “And you’re telling us this is connected to him?” He nodded toward Wiley.
“Yes,” Eamon said.
“Spell it out,” Wiley said.
“Onyx Bay.”
Wiley stopped moving his pen.
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as we can be without seeing them sign a letter.”