The message arrived on a Monday afternoon.
Damian was between customers — the midday lull, the shop quiet, the street outside doing its ordinary Monday things — when his phone lit up with a number he didn't recognize.
He almost ignored it.
His phone had been producing unfamiliar numbers at a higher rate than usual since Friday. Press contacts who had found the number through the legal filing. Reporters leaving voicemails he didn't listen to. Two calls from a number that traced back to a law firm he didn't recognize and hadn't called back yet.
He'd gotten good, over the past seventy-two hours, at looking at unknown numbers and making rapid assessments of likelihood.
This one he almost assessed as press and put down.
Then the message preview appeared.
*This is Alehandra Peters. I'd like to speak with you if you're willing. Not about Kendrick. About something else.*
He read it twice.
Set the phone on the counter.
Picked it up.
Read it again.
Alehandra Peters.
