Fletcher:Where are you?
I typed a response at the next intersection.
Farrow:Mobile west of Milk. Wiley received unknown text. Sent screenshot.
His reply came within seconds.
Fletcher:Exact location.
Farrow:If I wanted you to have exact, I’d have sent exact.
Wiley watched my face. “Is that Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“Are you antagonizing him?”
“Not as much as I could.”
Dane’s next message arrived.
Fletcher:This is joint coordination.
Farrow:Then coordinate. Don’t leash.
Fletcher:Keep him moving. Do not take him home.
I stared at that for a beat. He’d adjusted. It wasn’t a lecture or a demand for an address. He focused on what mattered.
Damn him.
Wiley looked from my phone to my face. “What?”
“He’s learning.”
“Fletcher?”
“Yes, and don’t tell him I said that.”
“I’m a journalist,” Wiley said.
“I know. That’s why I’m threatening you in advance.”
“What did he say?”
I put the phone away. “He said not to take you home.”
“I wanted my notes.”
“I remember.”
“I still want them.”
“You’ll handle the delay.”
Wiley slowed near a storefront. I followed his gaze.
It was a small café, narrow and brick-walled, with steamed-up windows.