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The caller cut the connection.
Travis slowly lowered the phone and tried to control the shaking in his fingers.
How could this be happening, after everything had gone so well? From the day he’d left Idaho, he’d been in total control of the situation, had called all the shots.
Not anymore.
He set the phone on the seat beside him and wiped his palms down the denim covering his thighs.
Taking a shot at someone, even one not intended to kill, was dicey. If he got caught, no one would believe he hadn’t had murder on his mind. They’d just assume his aim was bad.
But he had to do it. His blackmailer had left him no choice. The trick would be pulling it off in a manner that guaranteed he didn’t get caught.
The question was how.
Minutes passed as he racked his brain for an answer.
None came.
He had two days to think about it, however. To plan. And with his smarts, he ought to be able to both satisfy the person on the other end of the burner phone and stay safe.
After all, it wasn’t like the note writer had asked him to kill Bri. All they wanted him to do was scare her, which dovetailed with his own plans. While a gun hadn’t been part of his aggravation arsenal, a shooting would shake her up. Much more than his pranks to date had.
That was a definite upside.
But there was also a definite downside.
Unlike flat tires and a fallen branch, a shooting would be deliberate. No one would classify that as an accident.
That jacked up the risk exponentially.
Still, he ought to be able to pull it off and escape unscathed.
Yet as he started the engine and put the car in gear, the knot in his stomach kinked tight.
Because even if he completed this task to his blackmailer’s satisfaction, another potential assignment could be coming.
And if the first one involved a gun, odds were the second one would be at least as risky—and perhaps more dangerous.
He could only hope it never materialized. Or that if it did, it wasn’t more lethal than the first.
THIRTEEN
NOT. ENOUGH. SLEEP.
Propping up her eyelids, Bri shoved her hair back from her face and padded barefoot into the kitchen. After her late night at the fire scene, another hour or two of slumber would have been bliss.
Alas, her internal alarm clock refused to be silenced.
And now that she was awake, why lie in bed staring at the ceiling instead of doing something productive? Like restocking her almost empty fridge or throwing in a load of laundry ... or going over the case files from the Kavanaugh puzzle again in case she’d missed a nuance that would be helpful.
But first, coffee.
Yawning, she went through the motions with her one-cup brewer, then poured herself a glass of cranberry juice and sat at the table to wait for the caffeine infusion that would nudge her brain into gear.
As she sipped her juice, she squinted at her watch. Much too early to rouse Cara for their usual Saturday morning chat. Her night owl sister wouldn’t appreciate a wake-up call at this hour.
But a quick pass through her email wouldn’t bother anyone, nor would it tax her sluggish mind too much.
