“And I’d prefer a lot of things, Fletcher. We work with what we have.”
“Keep comms hot the whole way. Check in every five.”
“Every ten.”
“Every five, Farrow.”
“Every ten or I report what Wiley’s doing the entire drive,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “Every ten.”
“Excellent. Mature compromise. We’re growing.”
Dane looked at me.
“Move,” he said.
“Moving.”
I put a hand at the small of Wiley’s back—light and professional, the same hand I’d used to guide at least fifty principals through fifty doorways. It was also the hand that had braced against an upstairs wall last night while Dane Fletcher pressed me against it and took what he needed.
Not the time for that. Definitely not the time.
I walked Wiley to the door. He stopped at the threshold for half a second.
“Wiley.”
“I’m going.”
We descended three brick steps, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the SUV. I pulled the door shut, and the locks engaged with a soft clunk.
Wiley turned and looked back through the rear window. He watched Reed close the green door. He didn’t speak the entire length of Mount Vernon.
When we hit the turn at Charles, he finally spoke. “Helen Patterson sat on a Harcourt foundation board for three years.”
“Yes.”
“He’s bringing us something he was supposed to bury.”
“Or he’s bringing us something he was told to hand over.”
“You don’t think he’s clean,” Wiley said.
“I think we’re about to find out.”
I tapped the comm twice.
“Moving. ETA twenty-two.”
Dane’s voice in my ear. “Copy. Eyes up.”
“Always, babe.”
A pause.
“Farrow.”
“Yeah, Dane.”