CHAPTER TWELVE
David Hunter sat at the kitchen table that morning, trying to enjoy his first mug of fresh-brewed coffee.
Thunk. Crash.
The men upstairs would never qualify as cat burglars. They were destroying the upstairs of his house, just as they’d done to the downstairs, yesterday.
He thought about what US Marshal Kane Wilcox had said to him. If we find so much as a post-it note, tying you to Mia, your a*s is grass.
Unbelievable.
Across the table from him, his son Louie was scooping Cheerios into his mouth, eyes wide with worry. “Dad,” he said between chews. “They’re in my room.”
He managed a smile. “I know, kid. But they won’t mess with anything.”
At least, he hoped not. He understood their thinking—if he was going to keep evidence about his connection to Mia, he wouldn’t keep
