Page 7 of Cowboy Mountain Man

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

She gives me the details without dressing them up. The coffee mug. The boot prints. The receipt. The truck parked up the road.

When she reaches the part about driving around the block, I nod. “Good thinking.”

“I was hoping you’d tell me it was unnecessary.”

“Did the truck stop?”

“No. It slowed when it passed me. I couldn’t see inside.”

“Plate?”

She winces. “No. I know. I should have⁠—”

“You got somewhere public. That was the right priority.”

Her pink-tipped fingers loosen around the mug. A little. “There was tape on one headlight. Passenger side, I think.”

“What color truck?”

“Black. Maybe dark blue. Big enough to have its own zip code.”

I make a note. “Any stickers? Damage?”

“Other than the headlight, not that I noticed.” She quirks her mouth, pausing for one long moment.

“And the photograph?”

She slides her phone across the table. The image is enlarged until the barn window fills the screen. There’s a face behind it. Too much shadow to make out features. The orange point beneath it could be the lit end of a cigarette.

I swipe to the original image.

“May I?”

She nods.

I zoom out, checking the position of the window in relation to the house. Whoever stood there had a clear view of the kitchen. “Did you see anyone while you were on the property?”

“No.”

“Hear a vehicle?”

“No.”

I hand the phone back. “I’ll need copies of these.”

“Of course.”

She starts selecting files. Her sandwich sits untouched beside her elbow.

“Eat,” I tell her.

She stops tapping. “Excuse me?”

“June said you barely touched your food.”

“And June barely knows me.”