WEDNESDAY, 3:02 P.M.
GRAYBACK, WYOMING
In the parking lot across the street from the county sheriff’s office, the judge sat in his vehicle with the window down, even though the temperature was in the high eighties. These days, he got chilled too easily.
He glanced at his watch and frowned.
The photographer had once again interrupted his plans.
He’d spotted her entering the county sheriff’s building—up to no good, she was. But not for much longer. His chuckle morphed into a hacking cough.
He would have to speed up his timeline again because of her. He was glad he’d stopped the chemo. He’d been sicker with the treatments than he’d ever been on his own, and his body would lose to the tumors either way. Why had the cancer suddenly decided to spread?
The disease made it hard to keep his edge. He needed to stay strong for what was to come.
He was off the hook unless that woman met with a sketch artist. She might not have her camera, but anyone with an eye like hers would remember the details. She would remember the woman.
The question was—had she seen him behind his cap and rifle? The photographs she’d taken said she hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Still, how long had she been watching him?
All this peripheral business messed with his plans. He didn’t have time to waste on this, yet he couldn’t afford to ignore it. The verdict? He’d have to take out the one witness to this crime.