Walsh Mechanics occupied a converted gas station on the town's northern edge, where Route 9 curved. A hand-painted sign announced "Walsh Mechanics. Honest Work, Fair Prices" in letters that had faded but remained legible. There were two bays. In one was a rusted lift visible through the open door. Nearby, a parts truck parked on the gravel beside a stack of tires.
Connor's house was next door. It was one story with brown shingles and red brick. A new Honda SUV sat in the driveway, clean and out of place beside the working-class bones of the property. Noah pulled the Bronco in behind it and killed the engine.
He sat for a moment. He had no badge. No gun. No authority. Just what he knew. Noah got out and walked to the front door.
A woman answered. Late twenties. Dark hair pulled back. She was wearing a slip and had a robe pulled around her that she was still tying when the door opened. She looked past Noah toward the street, a reflexive check to see if any neighbors were watching.
"Yeah?"
"Connor home?"
"He's in the shower." She looked Noah over. She had learned to size up strangers at the door. "Who are you?"
Noah's hand moved toward his belt by habit, reaching for a badge that wasn't there. He stopped. "Noah Sutherland. I was with State Police on the Hale case. I need to ask Connor a few questions."
The name didn't register with her. She shrugged. "I'll go see." She closed the door.
He stood on the step and looked at the shop. The bays were dark. No customers. A cat sat on the windowsill of the office, watching him with the indifference of something that had seen every kind of trouble walk past and had stopped caring.
The door opened again. A man stood in the frame. Mid-twenties. Dark hair, wet from the shower. His jaw was covered in stubble. He was wearing jeans and pulling a T-shirt over his head, still damp at the shoulders. He was lean.
He didn't ask what Noah wanted. He just looked at him with an expression that said Shelly had already passed along the name.
"Sutherland," Connor said. "As in the cop who got my dad shot."
"Not exactly."
"You've got some nerve showing up here."
Noah didn't respond.
Connor held his gaze for another second. The door didn't move. For a moment Noah thought he was going to shut it.
Then something shifted. It seemed like he had spent his whole life trying to get someone to listen about the Hale case and had just been given one more chance to decide whether to try again.
"Five minutes," Connor said. He stepped back. "Then you're gone."
The living room was small and lived-in. A sofa with a blanket thrown over the arm. Two armchairs. A big-screen TV mounted on the wall. A coffee table with old mugs, a pack of Camels, and a lighter. On the wall beside the TV was a framed photograph of Connor and his father standing in front of the shop. The sign behind them was brighter, the letters freshly painted. Both of them were smiling.
Connor grabbed a flannel shirt from a chair and pulled it on, buttoning it as he sat. He picked up the cigarettes and shook one out.
"That was when we opened the shop," he said, following Noah's gaze to the photo. "My dad runs the one in High Peaks. I run the one here." He lit the cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling. "Though that's going to change now that he's in the hospital."
His girlfriend appeared in the hallway, dressed now, watching.
"Shelly, give us a minute."
She looked at Noah, then at Connor, then disappeared into the kitchen. A door closed.
"My dad's in a hospital bed because of your people," Connor said. His voice was level but the heat was underneath it, banked but present.
"I know."
"He's got a bullet in his shoulder and a dead friend and nobody from your office has so much as called to say sorry."
"I know that too."
"So why are you sitting in my living room?"
