Desmond arrived within the hour, summoned by Cruz's urgent call, his expression carrying the particular grimness of a man who'd hoped this exact kind of morning was permanently behind them.
"Let me see it," he said, and Cruz handed over the photograph and note with hands that hadn't fully steadied since the delivery.
Desmond studied both with a professional's careful attention, turning the photograph over, examining the note's paper stock, the print quality, anything that might offer a clue to its origin. "This is deliberate," he said finally. "Professionally taken, professionally delivered. Whoever sent this wanted you to understand, unmistakably, that you're still being watched."
"But why now," Wren asked, wrapping both hands around a mug of tea she hadn't touched, more for the anchor
