“An old friend of Matthew Rhymer’s.” Dusty’s eyes widened. “Would you know where he might be looked for these days?”

“No,” Dusty said brusquely. “I haven’t even heard from him since—for almost seven years now.” Memories of that awful night punched through him like gun shots. “What do you want?”

“Only to get this to him,” said the man, extending a cream-colored envelope.