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Patrick is waiting when I arrive at our satellite office in Wilmington. Dressed in his usual faded jeans and a maroon, short-sleeved tee, his light-brown hair is a messy bedhead, and if he didn’t have his son Lane at the house, I’d guess he came straight to meet me from sleeping with Elaine.

Hell, he probably did that anyway. Those two have been known to leave a house full of dinner guests for a quickie in the bathroom.

Standing in our small office space, I hold the fax and read the typed letter. It’s on nondescript, white paper in a basic, serif font. Nothing distinguishes it. Nothing gives us a clue as to who might have sent it.

The message is short and clear:

Ms. Durango:

I know about your involvement in the death of Sloan Reynolds. An item belonging to you, containing your DNA, is in my possession along with digital files of the enclosed photographs.

Lowering the sheet, I glance up at my partner. “Photographs?”

He hands over cheap prints showing Sloan’s corpse from a distance, lying on his back, his head cocked at a sick angle. The images gradually move in closer, frame by frame, until the focus is on a black lace thong in his pocket.

My jaw clenches. “Her fucking underwear.”

Patrick’s bicep flexes as he bends his elbow, pulling a fist to his chest. “We forgot he had it.”

I also know about your record and the child in Myrtle Beach. If you want her to remain safe, you’ll do as I say.

My next letter will contain instructions. Tell anyone, and you can kiss your baby goodbye.

Signed,

A Friend.

“A friend? Is that a fucking joke?” I’m ready to slam my fist through the wall. “What the fuck do they want?”

“Letter number two hasn’t arrived yet. Toni called me as soon as she read this. She’s pretty spooked, which you know takes a lot.” He walks around the only desk in our two-room satellite office. He and I both do the majority of our work on the road or from home, so this space is for the rare occasion we have to meet with a client in person.

Sitting in the chair, his hazel eyes laser into mine. “You get what this means, right? This asshole was there. He or she saw what we did and is looking to exploit it.”

“But why go after her?” My voice is flat. “Why not come straight to me?”

“That’s the part neither of us can figure.” He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “You clearly have more money if it’s blackmail. Maybe whoever it is sees her as the weak link in our chain.”

Growling, I try to think. “What’s this about a kid?”

“A little girl, Camille. She had her about a year ago, but the baby lives with her sister.”

Confused, I look up at him. “Could it be the father?”

“My first question.” He stands and walks around the desk again. “She says no. He still lives in Raleigh. They’re friends, just not together.”

Scrolling through my thoughts, I try to remember the last time we’ve heard from Toni... or “Star,” depending on whether she’s running a con. She’d enrolled in community college and was working toward a degree in criminal justice. I’d offered to help her find a legitimate job when she finished.

“She’s sure he’s not after the baby?”

“From what I understand, Cammie lives with her sister because of Toni’s... work history.”

“She expected something like this to happen?”

“I don’t think she expected Sloan Reynolds to come back from the dead, but apparently she’s been involved in some pretty high-risk jobs. She didn’t want to elaborate. I think she was afraid I might arrest her.”

“So that’s it. Whoever is sending this is trying to drag up her past for some reason.”

“Maybe.” He leans against the desk and crosses his arms. “Only she can’t figure out why. As we’ve both already noted, she’s not rich.”