Chapter Eight
Mark heard the car before he saw it, leaning in the open doorway of his cabin, holding a steaming black coffee. That mangy mutt of a dog was wandering through the overgrown weeds outside, lifting his leg, as the sun crept up over the horizon.
He took in the black pickup with the sheriff’s logo, which pulled up and parked. The dog gave a bark and ran over to the chief just as he stepped out, wearing a ballcap, sunglasses, and a gray jacket labeled “Police.”
“Hey there, doggy.” The chief ran his hand over the dog’s head, down to its wagging tail, then started toward where Mark stood.
“Here kind of early, Chief,” he said. The chief showing up at his cabin at the crack of dawn let him know something was up.
“Figured you and I need to have a talk.”
He could have asked about
