Page 51 of Weight of Guilt

So what was Roy’s reason?

He shifted in his seat before asking, “Paige, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.” She stared back at him, waiting for him to continue.

“What did your uncle drive?”

“That’s easy. It was a maroon and white eighty-seven Silverado. He bought it off the lot in ninety-four, and he’s never let a soul lay a finger on it but himself.”

“Two-tone?” He raised his eyebrows. This was his opening.

“Two-tone.” Paige nodded. “He was proud of that.”

“Huh.” Nash sat back. “My granddad had a Silverado also. Same body, blue over white. He’d let me steer it down the driveway sitting on his lap when I was about five, and I’ve wanted one every day since.”

Paige laughed. “You’d have got along with Roy then.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where’s his truck now?”

“The garage, of course. That’s where he always left it.”

“Any chance I could see it? I’m a huge fan.”

“Why not?” She grabbed a key off a hook by the back door and pressed it into his palm. “Side door sticks. You have to lift it and pull.”

“Got it.” He headed toward the door, which was just off the kitchen.

“Paige,” Wren said behind him.

He glanced back in time to see her reach for one of the casseroles on the counter.

“Let me put a couple of these in the freezer for you,” Wren continued. “They’re going to go bad if they sit out any longer, and you’re not going to eat four casseroles by Thursday.”

“Honey, I’m going to have trouble eating just one of them.”

“Then maybe we should freeze them all. That way you can eat them later. I can help you. I want to do something.”

“Of course. I appreciate that. I can’t even think straight right now.”

“Is there a freezer in the garage?”

“There sure is.”

Nash stepped into the garage. The space was cold and smelled like cut grass and gasoline. A push mower sat against the wall, a chest freezer hummed in the corner, and steel shelving was stacked with paint cans and a coffee can of various-sized screws.

In the middle of the bay stood the truck.

The vehicle had been kept clean. The chrome was dull but even, and there was no rust breaking through anywhere. It was a nice-looking truck.

A moment later, the door scraped, and Wren stepped inside behind him with a foil pan in each hand.

He knew she just wanted an excuse to come out here too.

He went to the freezer, opened it for her, and then took a casserole from her.

Once the food was settled, she stood at the front fender with her arms crossed. “Where was Roy going?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Nash pulled a folded shop rag off the shelf and opened it over his palm. “Don’t touch anything. Not the tailgate, not the glass, not the handle. If this turns into something, I don’t want to explain why a dead man’s truck has your prints on it.”