He's been careful, the way men who work at the firm are careful, and his digital trail is professional.
He has a P.O. box in Virginia, a numbered LLC for the rental account, and a cell phone I can ping to a tower in Llano County two nights ago and nowhere since.
He's still local. The motherfucker is still close.
Around four I get up out of the chair, pull on a fresh shirt, and head down to the kennel.
Diesel is up before I get there. The old shepherd-mix can feel things.
He's standing at the chain link with his nose pushed against the wire, his ears forward, and when I open the gate he comes out and falls into step beside me without me having to say a word.
We walk past the barn, past the round pen where the mustang is sleeping standing up.
Past the back of the bunkhouse where the kitchen light is off because Hadley isn't down yet, which means she's still in her bed in the cabin behind the bunkhouse.
I look right at her cabin.
The window in the bedroom on the left side is dark.
She's in there. She's asleep, or she's awake and not turning on a light, and I don't know which one is worse.
Diesel walks beside me without making a sound.
We go out the southern gate and walk the dirt road that runs along the western fence line for half a mile.
The morning hasn't started yet. The sky's still that flat purple. The mockingbirds will start in another forty minutes. For now it's just me, the dog, and the quiet.
I think about the way Thunder made Hadley laugh at dinner.
Open-mouthed laughing. Head tipped back. Her hand on her stomach because she was laughing so hard she couldn't stand straight.
I've never made her laugh like that.
I don't know if I'm a man who can make a woman laugh like that.
I've lived a long time without wanting something that wanted me back, and the next two weeks are gonna decide whether I get to keep that arrangement or not.
Hartley is in Llano County somewhere. The firm has decided I'm worth the trouble of waking up.
I reach the pull-off on the county road where the black sedan used to park.
I crouch down.
The tire tracks are still in the dirt from the last time Hartley sat here.
Front tires angled toward the ranch the way a man parks when he wants his line of sight clear without having to turn his head.
I run two fingers across the tracks.
Then I see the second set.
Not the sedan. Different tread. A wider tire. Truck or SUV.
Parked maybe thirty feet behind where the sedan was, set back into the brush enough that you'd miss it unless you were down on your knees looking for it.
Hartley wasn't alone.
Diesel makes a low sound in his throat.
