It was still three hours before dawn when she got close to Kaminski’s place, only fifty miles across the Idaho border. She pulled over on the empty road, locked her door, and leaned her seat all the way back so she could get some sleep.
It was hard not to think about Mark, all cozy in that hotel bed. She could be curled up right next to him, soaking in his heat and listening to his deep breaths. It would have been a thousand times nicer and more comfortable than her car. But she didn’t want him to wake up and argue with her.
She had a plan. She’d pretend to be a fan of Kaminski’s art—she had her sketchbook as proof that she was also an artist. She’d tell him that she wanted to buy one of his pieces. From what she’d learned in her research, he wasn’t generally violent. He’d never been arr
