“Yes,” I said.
“This is like the receipt.”
“The cost,” Wiley said. “They don’t specify. It could mean me, or it could mean Cabot. It could mean Patterson, finishing the job they started in Cambridge. Maybe it means Samuel.”
Cold settled at the base of my spine.
Wiley lowered his voice. “The cost of doing our work.”
Farrow handed the page back to me. “We bag it and send it to Eamon. They can dust for fingerprints. We share it with Boston PD to see whether there is a match with Patterson’s envelope.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“And we move from here,” Farrow said.
“We can’t move tonight. Not in the dark with two principals and a note that just told us they know exactly where we are. We move at first light, using a route cleared by Eamon, and we move to a location nobody in this house has been told about yet, including me.”
I bagged the page in a clean evidence sleeve from the kit and sealed it. I labeled it with the time and my initials.
I turned to Farrow. “All of us upstairs. We’ll plan the move from there.”
“Yes.”
The cost had been quoted.
We had until first light to be out the door.
Chapter twelve
Farrow
Dane was catching what sleep he could. I was moving through the house, checking locks and windows. My phone buzzed, and I had it to my ear before the second ring.
Eamon didn’t say hello. “We move at oh-four-hundred.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Brookline. It’s a carriage house behind a larger property. The Guardians own it.”
“What’s the approach like?”
“It has a single road in flanked by mature trees. We’ll flag anyone coming up the drive well before they reach the gate.” He paused. “I know Dane might be sleeping.”
“He’s already on the stairs. He’ll be standing here with me before you hang up.”
Eamon almost laughed. “Oh-four-hundred, Farrow.”
He was gone. Dane was at the bottom of the steps. He wore a black hoodie and jeans. He looked at me and waited.
“We move by oh-four-hundred to Brookline. It’s a Guardians-owned carriage house.”
He nodded once and headed back up the stairs. I tucked the phone away and followed. The treads creaked under my boots. Three hours and forty minutes to be out the door.
I was halfway up when I heard Wiley’s voice. I stopped on the landing.
His door was cracked an inch—not enough to see through, but enough to hear. He’d started his latest five-minute call.
“In the next several hours,” Wiley said.