Page 76 of Weight of Guilt

She waited for Nash to give an opinion. He didn’t, and she appreciated that.

He was just being supportive, which was something she wasn’t used to. Most people wanted to give opinions or judgments. Having someone simply listen was a rare gift.

Wren looked at Nash across the table, questions percolating in her mind. “Can I ask you something?”

He froze before nodding slowly. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“What happened in Nashville?”

Nash’s jaw locked up as soon as he heard Wren’s question. He didn’t like to talk about what had happened.

But Wren had just opened up to him. It felt rude not to do the same.

His throat tightened as he started. “There was a boy. Henry MacMillan. Nine years old. He was abducted out of his own front yard.”

Wren went still, listening to his every word.

“About six weeks into the investigation, I finally landed on a suspect. A man living two streets over had talked to Henry twice that spring. He had a prior stalking offense, and he’d lost his own son two years earlier in an accident.” Nash kept his eyes on the table. “I was sure this guy had taken him. We got a warrant, and when we came through the front door, he stepped out of a back bedroom with a pistol.”

“Oh . . .” She said the words low, like she already knew where he was headed.

“He knew he was caught. Then he grinned, almost as if he’d made peace with what he’d done.”

“That’s . . . disturbing.”

“Yeah. He muttered, ‘You’re never going to find him.’ Then he fired. That’s where this injury came from.” Nash touched his knee. “He was about to turn his gun on the rookie I had with me. I had no choice but to fire back, and . . . it was fatal.”

“No . . .”

“The review board cleared me. But . . .” He swallowed hard and made himself say the rest. “That man was the only person alive who knew where Henry was. To this day, no one has found him.”

“Oh, Nash . . . I’m sorry.”

“His mother did an interview with a local news station about a month after. She told a reporter that the detective on the case shot the one person who could have brought her son home.” His voice cracked as he said the words. It still killed him to think about, even after all this time.

Wren reached across the table and squeezed his arm. “That’s not what happened. You know that. That was just her grief talking.”

“It’s exactly what happened. And no one from the TBI was going to go on the news and argue with a woman whose son was kidnapped. I don’t know whether Henry was still alive when I came through that door. I’ll never know.”

“That sounds like a really tough situation.” She paused. “Is that why you came here?”

He nodded. “That’s why I came here.”

Wren studied him several minutes. “So you ended up next door to a labradoodle who won’t respect a property line.”

He felt some of the tension break and released his breath, glad for the change of tone. “That’s about the size of it.”

“And a dog of your own that everyone in Fog Lake thinks is a monster.”

“Tank’s never bit anything but a tennis ball.” Nash let out an airy chuckle. “But it doesn’t matter. People look at that jaw, and they’ve already made up their minds about him.”

“That sounds familiar.” She gave Nash a pointed look.

The realization spread over him. Wren understood. She realized just how misunderstood Tank was—and Nash.

Footsteps hurried across the cafeteria, and Marlowe stopped at the end of the table. “Sorry to interrupt, but Dad’s here. He’s out front.”

Wren stood and appeared to gather herself for the next hard conversation. About a quarter of her soup was gone. Nash figured that was better than nothing.