“He’s the kind of man who calls. Or sends a card.”
I nodded.
“He’s better than people think.”
“I agree.”
Wiley looked at me. “You’ve read him too?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have.”
“I’m very thorough.”
“You’re very nosy.”
I smiled. “Protection is nosiness in a tailored coat.”
The phone buzzed again.
“Could be my husband,” Wiley said.
“What’s his name?”
“Samuel.”
“Is Samuel likely to panic?”
“No.” Wiley paused. “He’ll get quiet.”
“Is that worse?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “You can look, but don’t answer.”
We stepped into the recessed entrance of a closed tailor shop. The glass had a handwritten sign taped inside:BACK AT 1:30. It was 11:14.
I positioned myself so I could see the sidewalk in both directions.
Wiley pulled out his phone. His brow furrowed.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s not Samuel.”
“Who then?”
“An unknown number.”
“Show me.”
He didn’t argue. The text was brief.
Unknown:You are asking the wrong family.
Wiley’s thumb hovered, not touching the screen.