“If you hadn’t told her to do that, Henry might be dead instead of her. Or both of them. Or you.”

Caitlin stared at a tattered issue of Self on the table.

“In 1992,” Jordan said, “a man I loved got blown apart while standing in line to fill a canteen with water for me. I was hiding twenty yards away. A mortar round took off the top of his head and killed four other people, two of them children. I didn’t even get a bruise. I can’t tell you how many ‘if onlys’ I suffered through over that. He died because of me, no question. But he was also there for himself, just like Henry Sexton. And I almost got myself killed a week later because I was still dwelling on it. I don’t want you to end up like Sherry tomorrow because you’re not paying attention.”

Caitlin said nothing. The story seemed like a magazine article she’d read long ago. Still, the accuracy of Glass’s intuition was unnerving.

“Did Henry tell you anything important before he was shot?” Jordan asked.

Caitlin’s thoughts leaped to Toby Rambin, the poacher Henry had told her about—the man who supposedly knew the location of the Bone Tree. With a stab of guilt she recalled entering Rambin’s name and number into her phone, then altering it in Henry’s so that no one else could discover it there. She hoped the FBI had no way to detect recent editing on a SIM card.

“You don’t trust me,” Jordan said.

A simple statement of fact.

“It’s not that,” Caitlin lied. “This morning you told me that you don’t always share everything with your husband. But I’m sure you share a lot. Where’s the line?”

The photographer smiled with an inward sadness. “That’s not always clear. But I wouldn’t betray anything you’re working on to John.”

“Are you asking me to tell you everything Henry’s confided in me?”

“No. But I figured you wouldn’t have been in that room tonight unless you hoped to learn something more from him.”

Caitlin’s head snapped up, angry words on the tip of her tongue.

“Hey, hey,” Jordan said gently. “No offense, okay? But if there’s one thing I know, it’s reporters.”

“I’m the publisher of my paper, not a reporter.”

Glass gave her a knowing smile. “I’ve read your stories. You’re a reporter.”

Caitlin resented the confidence with which Glass had pigeonholed her, but a little part of her glowed, as well.

Jordan hooked her hands around one knee and leaned back in her chair, her perceptive eyes on Caitlin. “I’m about to tell you something I shouldn’t.”

“What?” Caitlin asked, intrigued by the tone of Glass’s voice.

“Tomorrow John is going to subpoena the files you got from Henry Sexton. He’s going to take them from you legally.”