I stared at the message until the letters stopped making sense.
“Who sent that?” Lillian leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “Is there a name? A profile picture? Anything?”
“Nothing,” I said, my thumb hovering over the message. “Just a number.”
I tapped it, some reckless part of me needing an answer more than I needed caution. Three dots appeared immediately, like whoever was on the other end had been waiting.
Meet me tonight at Riverside Park, the bridge near the fountain. Come alone.
“Absolutely not,” Lillian said, reading over my shoulder again. “Annie, that is exactly how every true crime documentary starts. ‘She thought she was just meeting a source.’ No. We are not doing this.”
“Someone anonymous just sent me a warning about the man who apparently orchestrated my
