“Does Derek know you have these logs?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Rebecca said.

“He thinks his prepaid line can’t be traced because he paid cash at a gas station in Portsmouth.”

I stacked the printed pages neatly, lining up their edges against the side of the Formica table, and dropped the text logs onto the metal table.

Rebecca slid a silver laptop across the table, plugged a black power cable into the side, and hit the spacebar.

The screen flickered and showed a grid of four square camera views.