Page 57 of Weight of Guilt

“I take it he wasn’t from the funeral home?” Nash said.

“No, he didn’t say where he was from, even though he seemed very official. He was dressed in khakis and a button-up shirt. He talked like a professional if that makes sense.”

Wren leaned closer to the speaker. “What did he say?”

“He was nice,” Paige said, her voice trembling still. “He was sorry about Roy. Then he got around to talking about the truck.”

Nash’s grip visibly tightened on the wheel. “What about it?”

“He said he’d been talking to Roy about buying it. Since the summer. Said they’d shaken on a number, and he’d been waiting on Roy to make up his mind, and now he felt foolish even bringing it up.” A chair leg scraped on her end. “He kept saying he didn’t want to press me. He must have said that four times.”

“Did you believe him?” Nash asked.

“I did. Roy would sell you the shirt off his back if you admired it.” Paige’s breath caught. “But then he asked whether anybody else had been out to look at it yet and whether I’d cleaned it out.”

Wren’s pulse went hard in her ears. “What’d you tell him?”

“I told him no. But I don’t think he believed me.”

Either that truck or those receipts were significant. She and Nash weren’t chasing an empty lead.

They were on to something, and someone else knew it.

Nash’s thoughts raced.

“Did this man give you a name?” Nash asked.

“I asked him twice, and he avoided the question both times. The first time he told me he knew my uncle from back when. Second time he changed the subject and said he’d call later, and we could sort it out properly. Then he left.”

“That’s suspicious,” Wren muttered.

“What’d he look like?” Nash asked. “Besides the khakis and button-up shirt?”

“Ordinary. He was middle-aged, I’d say. Not heavy, not thin. Nothing about his face I could pick out of a room. He kept his sunglasses over his eyes the whole time.”

Nash’s thoughts continued to race. “What was he driving?”

“A car. A dark one.” Her voice lilted with frustration at herself. “I’m sorry I don’t know any more. It was parked past the mailbox where I couldn’t see it very well.”

“Anything on it?” Nash asked. “Decals? A plate you caught?”

“No, not that I could see. I’m sorry.”

Nash continued driving, his jaw harder now. “You did the right thing calling me. Thank you.”

“Should I call the sheriff?” Paige asked.

“It can’t hurt,” Nash said. “I’d call the detective on the case and let him know.”

“Okay.” Her voice shook. “I will.”

Wren leaned even closer to the microphone. “Paige, are your doors locked?”

A pause stretched across the line. When Paige spoke again, her voice was shaky. “I . . . I think so. I’ll check.”

“Make sure they are,” Nash said. “Don’t answer for anyone you don’t know. And if that man comes back, you call Sheriff Wilder. After you call him, you call me again.”

“Should I be scared?” Paige’s voice cracked.