The hunt could pause for an hour. If there was a truth I was missing, I needed it. I arrived at the diner. It was a 24-hour greasy spoon with flickering neon lights. There was only one car in the lot, a modest sedan. I walked in. A woman was sitting in the back booth. She was wearing a trench coat and sunglasses even though it was 4:00 a.m.
I sat across from her. I kept my hand near my knife. She took off her glasses. She was older, maybe 50. Her face was lined with stress, but her eyes were sharp. You don’t know me, she said. My name is Eleanor. I was Victor’s personal assistant for 20 years until he fired me last week because I refused to shred the files on Tessa.
Why did they do it, Eleanor? I asked. Why did they try to kill her? Eleanor reached into her bag. I tensed. She pulled out a Manila envelope and slid it across the table. It wasn’t just about the guns, Hunter, she whispered. Tessa found out about the guns. Yes, but that wasn’t why Victor snapped. It was what she told him that night. What did she tell him? Open it.
