Best-case scenario: He had seriously reduced their manpower resources and they would have to pull back and regroup, which would give him time. They would also probably know that the feds would be all over this, another reason to lie low for a while.

Worst-case scenario: They would redouble their efforts and try to finish the job tonight because he wouldn’t be expecting it.

And worst-case scenario is what you always prepped for.

He walked out to his rental, grabbed his go bag, and walked back to his cottage. He waited ten minutes and then turned the lights out. The rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. It was actually warmer than it had been.

He constantly checked the door and the windows, looking for anyone watching him. An hour passed. He opened the window in the bathroom, and knelt there for five minutes, watching, listening, and using his sense of smell to detect anything that might do him harm.

Satisfied, he clambered out and closed the window. He paralleled the main road for a quarter mile, then turned toward it and picked up his pace. His Army jog was designed to set a pace, not too fast and not too slow, that he could maintain pretty much forever with a sixty-pound pack on his back.

He reached Jocelyn Point and jogged up the main drive. He had taken great pains and used all his skills to make sure he was not being followed either by vehicle or on foot. He had even scanned the skies for drones. He saw Dak’s Harley with a customized rain cover over it. Alex’s bike was still parked on the covered porch.

He walked over to the art studio and tried the door. It was locked. He took a pick gun from his go bag, and twenty seconds later he opened the door and slipped inside.

He looked around the dark space, took in the smells of the paints and the charcoal pencils, and the peculiar aroma of drying clay. And he could also sense the woman’s shampoo and the body wash, which he had earlier imprinted in his brain in case it became important later.

That also meant it had not been so long ago that Alex had left her studio.

He checked his watch. After three in the morning.

But what did they say about artists: When the creative bell sounded you needed to answer the call no matter the time. He used his phone light to look around at her works in process and he marveled at both the woman’s obvious skill and imagination. He didn’t know which one he admired more.

Then he came to a sketch he had not seen before, because it hadn’t existed when he had been here previously.

She had gotten the jawline right, and the eyes, too. Deep-set and brooding, looking angry even when the person wasn’t. The neck was a bit thicker than he had thought, at least in perspective to the head, but everyone had their interpretation.

But for having not spent much time with the person, Alex had done quite a good likeness.

Of me.

Chapter 30

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Devine woke and sat up straight to see the morning sunlight shafting into the skylight.

He scrambled to his feet from his sleeping berth on the floor and faced off with Alex Silkwell, who was not looking as angry as her words might have implied, but more curious.

And perhaps a bit amused.

She had on the same clothes as the last time he’d seen her in the studio. Her hair hung wet and limp around her face. He actually liked it that way better than piled on top. The latter was too theatrical, he supposed was the word. The former just seemed more... truthful?

And why are you even thinking about that?

“Well?” said Alex, giving him a raised-eyebrow look.

“I had a spot of trouble in town and decided my cottage at the inn might be compromised.”

“So you picked my studio to be compromised instead?”

“I had few options. But I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Okay, but you were sleeping so hard I could have taken my time and killed you.”

Devine didn’t say anything to this, because he knew she was probably right.

She perched on a worktable. “What sort of trouble?”

“Just some guys who wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

“Like what?”

Like die, he thought. But said, “Nothing important.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m willing to listen.”

She scowled at his flippancy. “You don’t look like the sort that anyone could make do anything.”

“You never know. So that’s why I came here.”

“The door was locked. I always lock it.”

He took out his pick gun. “Then you should strongly consider a stronger lock.”

Her scowl deepened. “Should I call the police? Isn’t breaking and entering illegal?”

“I swear I broke nothing.”

She seemed to think of something and glanced at the sketch of him on the easel.

Her face flushed. “I... you’re probably thinking...” She gave up.

“I think you’re an artist who sees creative opportunities in everything you see and everyone you meet.”

Her flush vanished, and so did her scowl and reserved manner. Her smile lit the room stronger than the sunlight, at least to Devine.

“You look like you could use some coffee. And food.”