"Grayson, what is it?" Mailah whispered, the hair on her arms rising.
Grayson didn't answer. He moved with that familiar, silent lethality, placing himself squarely between Mailah and the porch. His eyes, usually a calm and steady blue, had shuttered into something sharp and distant.
He reached the steps in three long, predatory strides. Mailah followed, her heart hammering against her ribs, but when she reached the porch, she stopped short.
Grayson was kneeling by the satchel, his hand hovering. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't scan the tree line for snipers. He simply picked up the small, leather bag and pulled out a single, folded piece of thick, cream-colored cardstock.
He unfolded it, his movements stiff.
Mailah peered over his shoulder. The handwriting was elegant, loops and flourishes that seemed entirely too cheerful for the tension radiating off Grayson's shoulders.
