Page 30 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

I flipped the envelope over again. It was plain, made of cheap paper. No tracking. No fingerprints—not that I would touch it again without gloves. But the message? That was personal. Deliberate.

I pulled Emery into the house, double-locked the door behind us, and flipped the porch light off. Then I went for my phone and called River.

He picked up on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”

“I need a trace team,” I said. “Now.” I told him where we were.