The letter arrived on Ana's third birthday, tucked innocuously among cards and gift wrapping, addressed not to Cruz or Wren but to Desmond Calloway directly, forwarded from his old investigative office in a city he hadn't lived in for years.
"I almost didn't open it," Desmond admitted, arriving at the compound that evening still visibly shaken, the birthday celebration's balloons and streamers a strange, incongruous backdrop to the grim document he spread across the picnic table. "The return address looked like nothing — no name, just a P.O. box in a town three states over. But something told me to check."
Wren scanned the letter's contents, her stomach tightening with each line. It was handwritten, careful and precise, from someone identifying themselves only as a man who kept the books
