“They did, and I tried to contact them when I had another open spot a couple of weeks later. The call went straight to voicemail.” Shuffling sounded in the background. “Let’s see . . . here’s the paperwork. They did leave an address, but it’s a PO box in Staunton.”
A PO box? That would most likely be a dead end.
“What name did they register under?” he asked.
“Get this, the man—the person who signed the paperwork—said his name was Thomas Paine.” She snorted. “I remember thinking it couldn’t be real, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. They paid for the booth rental in cash.”
Thomas Paine . . . a political writer during the American Revolution. From what Wyatt remembered, the man had authoredCommon Sense, his writing ultimately helping convince the colonists to break away from Britain.
The man stirred images of history, influence, and words that had once moved entire crowds.
Wyatt frowned as the thought settled. This wasn’t about the man himself. It was about what he represented.
Influence. The power to make people believe something strongly enough to act on it.
Wyatt’s gaze drifted to the symbol they kept finding, each one etched with intention, too deliberate to dismiss as coincidence. They weren’t random or meaningless.
They were leaving that symbol to send a message, a claim.
His chest tightened as the pieces began to shift into place. What if this wasn’t just one person? What if it was a group?
After all, people didn’t leave symbols like that unless they want to be recognized. What if they were some kind of cult? A dangerous cult? One that Mackenzie had somehow gotten involved with?
