Page 58 of All the Little Truths

She pressed closer to his desk, her gaze fierce and fixed on his. “You have a daughter close to the same age as my Lucy.”

He nodded. His throat thickened to the point he could no longer breathe. Why did she think he couldn’t give her the answers she wanted? How could she know? The ache of defeat tore through him.

“You have a wife you love and admire.”

“I ... I do. Yes.” Dear God, how could he explain that his daughter and wife were his world ... he had to protect them?

“If you were in my shoes and someone had taken those things from you,” she pushed on, “what would you do?”

“I ... can’t.” The weight of the burden he carried caused a moan to burst from him. “I ... I just can’t.”

Her eyes widened. Sweet Jesus, he had already said too much.

“I will not go to the police,” she pleaded. “You have my word. I have other ways of taking care of whatever needs to be done.No onewill ever know I spoke to you.”

His gaze locked with hers. “What do you mean?”

“Trust me, please,” she begged. “Just trust me. Not once in my career have I ever betrayed a source. I will not betray you. Not to anyone.”

The air filled his starving lungs. Did he dare? What if she got herself killed based on what he told her? He couldn’t bear to be the reason ...

“Tell me,” she urged. “Please tell me what you know. I can see that you know something—something you want to tell me. Something important about my daughter. Please ... I just want peace. I’ll never have that until I know.”

God forgive him, but he couldn’t do this. He could not watch this misery and keep this awful, awful secret any longer.

He had to tell her ... tohelpher.

17

Now

Thursday, December 7

Vintage Autohaus

Mcmillin Street, Nashville, 8:30 a.m.

It was a new day, and Finley was moving on to the next stop on her list. Friends of the missing Ian Johnson. The best part about reinterviewing potential witnesses thirteen years later was seeing just how much their statements changed. People changed. Grew more mature—hopefully. Memories dimmed or sharpened. Perspectives shifted. Regrets echoed. It was always interesting to see the differences. Then, her job was to determine which—if any—of those changes made a difference.

The first name on the list of Ian’s friends was Troy Clinton. Clinton had started a small auto shop after high school and now operated the biggest mechanic shop for vintage and foreign cars in Nashville. Lined up along the lot awaiting his skilled touch were high-end Mercedes, BMWs, Land Rovers, and even a Rolls-Royce, among others.

Finley closed the door of her Subaru and started toward the office entrance. The shop, too, was vintage. A small office with a full glass front and a line of six bays for servicing vehicles. A good-size fenced lotattached to the office end of the building safeguarded the cars awaiting service. County records showed Clinton had bought the property from the Johnson Development Group. Finley wondered what kind of discount he’d been given and for what reason.

Finley pushed through the entrance door, setting the attached bell to jingling. A young man who looked to be in his early twenties glanced up from the glossy hot rod magazine he’d been flipping through.

He smiled. “Morning, ma’am. Can I help you?”

The name tag sewed onto his khaki shirt said Trey. He looked enough like Troy to be his younger brother, which she suspected he was. Southern people liked naming offspring after themselves or something similar. She would bet money the two had a father named Trent or Trace. Finley was a perfect example. TheFinin Finley was fromFinnegan. She’d been named after her godfather. Her middle name, Bishop, she shared with her mother. It was her maternal grandmother’s maiden name.

“Trey, I’m looking for Troy Clinton. Is he here today?”

He gave her a nod. “That’s my brother. Hold on and I’ll go get him.”

Trey disappeared through a side door that was also glass and led to the extended area where the work happened. He hustled down the line of bays holding cars currently being repaired or serviced. From outside, the bays looked to be separate spaces, but they were actually one long rectangle. The young man stopped at a Porsche and spoke to the man with his head poked under the hood—which was actually at the back of the vehicle instead of the front.

The man leaning over the engine raised up and glanced in her direction. Finley figured he was Troy. He wiped his hands on a shop cloth and followed Trey back to the office. Once through the door, Trey resumed his skimming of the magazine with all the fancy cars and the half-naked chicks while Troy tucked the shop cloth into his back pocket and smiled—one exactly like Trey’s.

“Morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”

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