It was wrapped in plain brown paper, the size of a shoebox. Inside: tissue paper. And inside the tissue paper: a photograph.
The same photograph.
The garden. Marisol and the toddler. Summer light. Slightly worn at one corner.
Emory's photograph. The original. That had been taken from his home.
No card this time.
I stood in the kitchen and held it and thought about We know who she is and about a corporate intelligence operative going dark and about Jade Sterling, who was not a jealous ex, who was playing a longer game, who had spent weeks watching this building from outside while I learned who I was inside it.
Dax came in. Saw the photograph. His expression did the thing.
"She's escalating," he said.
"Yes." I set the photograph on the island. "She's telling us she can move through E
