6
See you soon.
Anna glared at the words, reading Spike’s email for the fourteenth day in a row. She slammed shut her laptop. What a d**k.
And a liar.
Feet propping on the cedar chest, she sank back into the sofa and scooped the Yarborough knife from the cushion. Her thumb caressed the tang’s curved edge, fingers clasping the hilt. The knife sang from its sheath, and she peered into its black blade—a perfect reflection of her mood. Where the hell are you?
Her phone vibrated on the coffee table. Wes’s name scrolled across the screen, and she scrambled to answer. “What’d you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Maybe you weren’t asking the right questions. Give me his number.”
“This isn’t calling in a favor for Spike’s mail. It’s a matter of national security. All I can tell you is what he told me:
