“If you say one word to the cops about this call, you’re dead,” a rough voice said. “Did they take his computer?”
“No,” Trev whispered. The police hadn’t because—as he’d told Quint—it was sitting in his room. He’d borrowed it the day before the murder to email his weekly letter to his family, since he didn’t have his own laptop.
“Good. You’re to get it, put it in your backpack and take it…Do you have a paper and pen?”
“Yes. Give me a second,” Trev replied, getting up to tear a page off the pad on the fridge then get a pen from the junk drawer. “Okay.” His hand shook as he wrote down the address the man gave him.
“You have an hour to get it there. Leave your backpack in the second stall from the wall in the men’s room at the King Soopers. Remember, if we see any cops, you’re dead. We kn
