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No one entered the alley.

One moment, the shelf behind the bar was empty.

Four minutes later, the box was there.

“That’s impossible,” Trigger said.

“No,” Saint answered. “It means we’re looking at the wrong camera.”

He switched angles.

Customers moved through the dining room. A server carried a tray toward the kitchen. Two men played pool near the back wall.

Then an older customer stood and put on his jacket.

The jacket had been draped over the back of his chair.

The box had been hidden beneath it.

As he lifted the jacket, another customer walked past the table.

A man in jeans, boots, and a dark baseball cap.

His face remained turned away from the camera.

He picked up the box without slowing.

Thirty seconds later, he placed it on the bar while the bartender’s back was turned.

“Stop,” I said.

Saint froze the image.

The man wore work gloves despite the August heat.

A dark blue shirt hung loose over his shoulders. Gray showed beneath the back of his cap.

“Can you sharpen his face?” Trigger asked.

“He never turns toward the camera.”

“Follow him backward,” I said.

Saint changed cameras.

The man entered through the front door at one thirty-seven.

His cap hid his face.

He sat alone.

Ordered coffee.

Never drank it.

He watched Rylie move through the dining room for thirty-six minutes.

Trigger leaned closer to the monitor.