She moves beside me, and her shoulder brushes my arm.
Even here, even now, that contact registers somewhere south of my belt.
"That's my phone number." Her voice is flat, controlled, but I catch the micro-flinch, the tightening around her eyes.
She pulls out her phone and photographs the damage. Methodical. Every angle. The depth of the scratches, the precision of the letters, the number underneath.
"This is escalation," she says, straightening up. "The car was surveillance. This is a direct threat. They're telling us they know how to get to me, and they're connecting it to what happened to Grant."
"This is Merrick telling us the story got his attention."
"Good. That was the point." She scrolls through her photos. "I'm calling Torres."
"Tell her we need to talk about security. And tell her I'm running out of patience."
"Tell her yourself. You're standing right here."
"I'm busy thinking about what I'm going to do to the person who scratched your phone number on my truck."
She pauses mid-dial. Her eyes flick up to mine, and there's something in the look that's half concern and half the particular challenge she throws at me when she's testing how close I am to doing something destructive.
"Define what you're going to do."
"I haven't decided yet. The options range from inconvenient to federal."
"Let's aim for the inconvenient end of the spectrum. Torres first. Felonies later."
Torres answers on the third ring. Kenna puts it on speaker, her voice clipped and professional.
I stand close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something citrus cutting through the dry morning air. It shouldn't register right now. Every time I'm near this woman, my body runs a parallel track that has nothing to do with the crisis at hand and everything to do with the way she tilts her head when she's being precise.
Torres asks if we've been followed. Kenna describes the sedan, the timing, the deliberate exit and also tells her about the message carved into the paint of my truck. Torres goes quiet in a way that tells me she's writing this down.
"I'm accelerating the warrant timeline," Torres says. "In the meantime, don't go anywhere alone. Either of you."
"We're already past that," I say.
"Good. I'll have local field agents make contact. Expect a call."
She ends the call. Kenna and I stand in the parking lot, and the morning light catches the gouged metal on my truck door, the exposed silver bright against the dark paint.
I'm thinking about what I'd like to do to the man who carved Kenna's phone number into my property when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. Text message.
Need to talk. Not safe for me anymore. I have information you need. Meet me tonight. Come alone. Storage yard behind the Pima County fairgrounds. 9 PM.
The sender ID comes up a second later.
Dale Thornton.
I read it twice and hand the phone to Kenna. She reads it, and her chin tips up at the angle that means she's already three moves ahead in a chess game I'm still setting up the board for.
"Trap," she says.
"Probably."
"Absolutely. Thornton is Merrick's operation manager. Everything runs through him. Why would he flip?"
