He gives me a quick wave. “Johnson,” he calls in a friendly tone. “Hope you didn’t wait long.”
This is not the man I’ve started to build up as a point of friction.
He approaches the car. “Sorry, I’m running late. Got stuck with the K-9 unit in San Jose. You should come check out the dogs sometime.”
“No problem.”
He combs his fingers through his auburn hair. “I took another look at some details you brought forward after you spoke with the chief,” he continues, scratching his cheek. “I was wrong to sign this all off.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
He shrugs sheepishly. “I never noticed the bolts. I was so focused on the crash evidence, getting in and out of that damn quarry, which was not an easy task… I’m embarrassed to not have noticed them. Guess sleepless nights with my new baby are getting to me.”
Yeah, maybe the baby explains the blurry photos, too.
Am I going to lose my edge when the baby comes?
The junkyard wind whistles through a row of broken doors. My unease softens, not completely, but enough that my heartbeat calms from sprint to jog. And I’m relieved Ingram isn’t pissed at me. It’s better if we’re all on the same page around here.
“I wracked my brain during one of said sleepless nights,” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Pulled over a guy the week after Zoe’s crash,” he says. “Out-of-towner. Driving a beat-up red pickup. He had front-end damage I casually asked him about, but said he had the car in drive instead of reverse.” He hands me the slip. “Didn’t think too much then, but with you keeping the case open, I came here for a second look. Come, this is what I wanted you to see.”
He crouches down near the bumper, and I join him. He points to an impact site. “Here. I didn’t even notice at the time, but I swear this is paint transfer.”
He shines his cell flashlight on the paint I noticed a moment ago. It’s not intense and obvious, but I noticed it myself a few minutes ago. I can see how it got missed, especially with so many other things to document about this vehicle, but there it is. Super faint, red paint, almost pink, it’s so light.
“I let the guy off with a warning.” He hands me the paper. “But I pulled my bodycam images so you could track him down. See if there’s a match with the vehicle he was driving.”
A spark lights in my chest. Not hope. But direction.
“You were right not to close this,” he says, exhaling. “I guess I was sloppy. I hope it’s nothing. The thought of foul play here in our little town doesn’t sit well, but…I’m really glad you followed your gut.” He points to the paper in my hand. “It could lead to something.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound professional and not like someone who desperately needed a reason to believe she wasn’t imagining everything.
He nods. “I have to get back out on the highway. Speed-trap duty.”
I roll my eyes. “My favorite.”
“Isn’t it everyone’s?” he adds with a friendly sarcasm.
Lighter because…I wasn’t wrong. Heavier because…this just got more complicated.
I watch Ingram weave back through the twisted metal until the last edge of his uniform disappears behind a row of crumpled sedans. The junkyard settles again—wind hissing through broken doors, the skeletons of cars groaning softly in the sun.
Only when I'm sure he’s gone do I pull out my phone.
Me
Coast’s clear. You can step out of the shadows now, Batman.
A beat.
Then another.
Then, finally, Anton appears between the twisted metal rows, shoulders broad, eyes sweeping the yard before finding me.
For half a second, relief softens his whole face before he tucks it away like it’s something he shouldn't show. He thinks I won’t notice his worry.
But Ialwaysnotice him.
