Page 28 of Crosscurrent

Owen kept going, words picking up speed now that he'd started.

"I almost mailed it anyway. I mean, I teach medieval economic systems. I am profoundly unqualified for whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between Skye and the envelope. "But then someone from the Marshal’s office called again yesterday, asking whether Ray kept personal notebooks or storage devices and..." He stopped.

Cara kept her tone soft. "And what?"

Owen looked at her.

"They already sounded like they expected those things to be missing." He pushed the teacup away from him. “So I grabbed a flight from LA to Portland, and here I am.”

Diane set a plate of untouched shortbread on the counter harder than strictly necessary.

"I didn't know what I was walking into," Owen admitted quietly. "I still don't."

Skye finally spoke. "You walked into danger."

Cara resisted the urge to kick her under the table.

Owen inhaled. "...Okay. That’s…not good."

“It’s not,” Skye agreed, completely unnecessarily, in Cara’s opinion.

But instead of crumbling, Ray Harney’s nephew rose to the occasion. “So I’m guessing Uncle Ray’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Skye responded before Cara could figure out a way to cushion the news.

Owen nodded to himself. “Got it.” When he looked up there was a new determination steeling his features. “So what do we do about it?”

“We’re looking into it.” Cara tried to sound as non-committal as possible.

“They do that,” Skye added. “Cara and her team. They investigate things.”

Owen’s eyes widened.

The manila envelope sat on the table between them. Skye's name on the front in a cramped, angular hand — the kind that got smaller when the writer was focused. Below her name, one line: In person only.

Skye reached for it.

Cara watched her pick it up and turn it over and read the front. Just her name, and that one line, written in a dead man’s hand. A dead friend’s hand.

She tore open the envelope.

Inside: a single sheet of legal paper folded in thirds, and a leather notebook, slim, sealed into a small steel sleeve with a combination lock at the clasp. Evidence-grade.

The notebook didn't give when Skye pressed the sides. Skye unfolded the letter. The same cramped hand, covering maybe a third of the page.

Cara was close enough to read the first line.

Skye — if you're reading this, I'm gone.

She looked away.

The bakery was quiet. A car passed on Marina Street. The espresso machine ticked as it cooled. Owen turned his tea mug in a slow circle without looking up.

Skye read the letter without expression. Then she set it down flat and put both hands on either side of it on the table.

Owen leaned in her direction, eyes on the note. "What does it say?"

"It says you can't go home," she said.