“So I heard,” Dane said.
Cabot moved ahead of Dane. “What text?”
“Unknown number. It said I’m asking the wrong family,” Wiley said.
“The wrong family,” Cabot said. It was a statement, not a question.
Dane turned slightly. “Cabot?”
“Whoever sent that wants Wiley to look anywhere but at the Harcourts. That means there’s something about them they don’t want him to find.”
“Do you know what it is?” Wiley asked.
“No, but I know who might. There was a cousin nobody wanted me to write about. I assumed it was the usual reasons: black sheep or addiction.” Cabot looked at Wiley. “Now I don’t think it was.”
Chapter five
Dane
Beacon Hill houses ran tall and narrow on lots measured out before anyone had imagined a black SUV trying to find a parking space. The entry hall ran straight back from the front door, with a floor of wide-plank pine darkened to honey by two centuries of wax and foot traffic. The plaster walls were the color of unbleached linen.
A narrow staircase climbed to the second floor, treads creaking under Reed’s weight when he stepped up two to make room for Farrow and Wiley. Whoever Eamon contacted to choose the location had good taste. The building was a historical beauty, not a typical safehouse with concrete walls and high windows. It was a property a hostile actor wouldn’t think to look at twice.
In the parlor, to the left of the hall, the windows facing the street bore single-glazed, original wavy glass that softened the streetlight into long gold smears. The interior shutters folded into the casings looked decorative until you noticed the hardware was solid brass and the latches had keyed locks.Someone had restored those properly. We would test whether they worked.
The staircase to the second floor created a natural choke point. One operator could hold it. The ground floor hallway turned left at the back of the house into the kitchen.
I’d done the first sweep on the way in. The second one I did with Reed at my shoulder and Cabot a half-step behind.
“Reed.”
“Yes?”
“Front door stays closed. No one opens it unless I’m standing here.”
“Understood.”
He nodded and took a position in the foyer.
Farrow had taken the parlor. He stood at the left window with his body angled in toward the room rather than out toward the street, and his shoulders were loose. He wasn’t standing where I would have stood, but he had a better view of the people in the room.
Cabot followed me into the kitchen.
It had original cabinetry rising to the ceiling. A gas range was recent, and a renovated breakfast nook took advantage of a window onto the courtyard.
I crossed to the door and tested the handle. It was solid. I threw the deadbolt back, turned the knob, and opened it an inch.
Cold came in around the seal, smelling like wet brick and old leaves. The courtyard ran maybe twelve feet square, paved in herringbone brick that had buckled in two places where tree roots had won.
A wrought-iron gate at the far end opened onto a service alley I’d seen on the way in. There was no line of sight from the street or second-story windows overlooking it.
No safehouse was entirely safe, but this one was workable.
I closed the door, threw the deadbolt, and ran my thumb along the gasket. It was tight.
When I turned, Cabot was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me.
“Safe enough?” he asked.