“That’s most of Europe.”
“He’s safe. That’s the point of the card.”
Dane put his hand on the back of my neck with his thumb at my hairline. He spread his fingers wide and warm against my skin.
I turned and kissed him briefly.
Then I walked the card to the kitchen and set it face-up on the counter beside the coffee maker. We could see it there every time we poured.
“Wiley needs to know,” I said.
“Wiley first. Then Cabot.”
I pulled my phone off the charger and before I could call, it buzzed. It was Wiley.
“Speaker,” Dane said.
I tapped it and set the phone on the counter beside the card.
“Farrow.”
“Wiley, you’re on speaker. Dane’s here.”
“Good. Patterson’s back. Full days as of Monday. He’s editing a piece of mine on dog-nappers. He’s furious about three of my paragraphs and won’t tell me which three until tomorrow.”
“Is that normal?”
“It’s his tactic. He’s holding the paragraphs hostage, so I have to call him in the morning.”
I caught Dane’s eye. He almost smiled.
“Wiley,” I said. “We got a postcard.”
“From?"
“K.”
The line was quiet for two seconds. I heard Samuel say something in the background, low, and Wiley answer with one word I didn’t catch.
“That’s the best news I’ve had this week,” Wiley said. “Christ. Where from?”
“No return. The picture is a random European cobblestone street.”
“Don’t tell Cabot.”
“I was about to.”
“Don’t. He’ll spend ninety minutes identifying the lamp post. Tell him after the weekend.”
“Copy.”
“By the way,” Wiley said, “Stanley filed a piece on the Sedgwicks this morning. The Sedgwicks of Stockbridge, not the Sedgwicks of Beacon Hill. Pure fluff, but expert fluff. You’d think he hadn’t sat across a kitchen table from a federal agent six weeks ago.”
“Tell him we say hello.”
“Tell him yourself Sunday. Samuel’s making cassoulet. I’m not allowed to help.”
“You’re not allowed to help because the last time you helped, you put cumin in it.”