Proved easy enough to find out where Danielle Foster lived, who she married, the age of her boys. Hunter chuckled as he shook his head. Amazing what computers offered up these days.
A quick search on the internet gave him a whole lot of information—thanks, in part, to her husband’s open-access Facebook account. Why people would want to be on those types of sites was beyond his understanding. While Danielle had her account locked up tighter than a steel drum, Mr. Garrett Patterson dropped tons of pictures of his wife and a couple of cute boys. Even posted today about how excited he was to see his eldest—that pride and joy of his sweet little family—get the pitching role for the first game in a big tournament up in Frisco.
Hunter studied the photos of both boys. The younger, blond kid was awful damn small.
Slight. That was the word his mama used to use. A slight child.
Hunter curled his lip. He’d hated being called that.
He clambered into an old pickup he kept out in the back shed. He’d bought it for cash over in Arkansas about two years ago. He puttered down the road, keeping his speed a couple miles under the limit. Had to be careful since this baby wasn’t registered.
He rolled down the window to enjoy the late winter breeze. He patted the edge of the rusted and dented door, smirking a little. Not hard a’tall to dump an old beater like this one. Just took a bit of planning.
Hunter was good at planning but also good at taking the moment as it came.
He’d see what was what and go from there.
He stopped at a light and glanced over, his smile turning down when he noticed a Mansfield police cruiser. Damn patrol would be out. Well, he’d keep it slow and easy.
Make sure he made it to Frisco in plenty of time to watch Danielle’s boy pitch some youth little league.
Anticipation hummed through his veins as he entered the highway. Yep, today the hunger would abate.
And Hank Foster would remember how he’d set this whole set of events into motion.
He began to hum a Johnny Cash song.