I spent the afternoon assembling those threads. I found a faded map of Reid’s known haunts on a forum someone had accidentally linked once when I’d been looking for a motel name. I photographed it, marking routes, noting times when the Vultures liked to patrol. I copied the map onto a clean sheet, smudging and adding errors I knew would bait whoever read it. I bought a cheap jacket, desert-colored and nondescript. I kept a small ceramic spice jar — my desk’s old trick; it would be my false “safe drop” with a hollowed center.
At dusk I texted a number Reid still had for me — the voice shook in my throat, but the text was cold and small: I’m at the Blue Crane. Come. Alone. Midnight. I included a faux tidbit that would tickle his ego: I have something of his. He’ll want to see it. I
turned
