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“Don’t tell me any more. I have no idea how you do your job.”
I went through the rest of the file slowly. Nothing but the tire marks stuck out at me as something that could potentially help to rule out what I’d hoped to.
“Can tire marks be matched to a car years after an accident?”
“I’m no expert, but it probably depends on how much the tires have been driven. If you impound a vehicle soon after the accident, tire marks can be like fingerprints. The wear on them is unique, created from a combination of a car’s alignment, the roads it’s driven on, how it’s driven, and a bunch of other factors. But if you keep driving that car for years, the fingerprint changes over time.”
“This particular car is a collectible, so it sits in a garage most of the time. Though I have no idea if the tire has been changed.”
“Welp, there’s only one way to find out. Take an impression of the tire and do a comparison to the photo.”
“How do you do that?”
“It’s pretty simple. You dab some ink on the tire and roll it along a long piece of paper to catch the full tire rotation. Everyone and their mother wants to be a CSI these days, so you can get fingerprint kits, tire kits, and blood-detection spray all online.”
I couldn’t believe I was even considering doing this shit. Tyler stayed quiet as the wheels in my head spun.
“You want to fill me in on why this is so hush-hush?” he said. “You mentioned people could get hurt, but if it brings the truth out, maybe it’ll be worth it in the end. Knowing the truth always helps victims and their families with closure.”
“Bella’s just started to move on. And if my hunch is right, finding out who is responsible is going to open a whole new can of worms.”
“Who is it you think is responsible?”
I locked eyes with my brother. “This has gotta stay between me and you.”
My brother pulled his head back. “You have doubt that I would put you over my job?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.” I took a deep breath. “The car that might have been involved in the accident…belonged to John Barrett.”
His forehead wrinkled as he tried to place the name. “The owner of the Bruins who died?”
I nodded. “And Bella’s father.”
Tyler leaned back. “Damn. You think her father killed her mother?”
***
Three days later, the impression kit arrived in the mail. I walked the damn package to the elevator at my apartment under my sweatshirt, like I was smuggling drugs. And the box wasn’t even marked. Once I opened it in private, I stared at the contents and debated whether I was really doing this or not for the millionth time.
I should just let it go. Bella is in a good place now. Even if it turned out my hunch was right, how would that help her? It would be devastating all over again.
But she deserved to know the truth. It might even help explain why her father never made contact. Maybe he was too guilty to look her in the eyes.
Maybe neither of us knowing is the right way to go.
Would I be able to look at her in the eyes if I withheld that information forever? I struggled now, and she already sensed something was off. Not to mention, I couldn’t play football for crap these days.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I picked up the test kit. The best thing that could come out of this would be that it proved me wrong. If that was the case, I wasn’t going to tell her. Sure, there would always be a chance the tires had been changed, or the tread no longer matched because they were too worn. But if it was truly a dead end, I didn’t want to dump all that on Bella. Not knowing an answer was harder than getting an answer you didn’t like. Because you can never accept what happened and move on.
Maybe I should tell her either way.
I shook my head. Screw this. I could debate it all day and night, but why waste more time when I could go to the garage now? Coach wouldn’t even have to know, since I already had the code to the combination lock.
I looked at the time on my phone. We had an afternoon practice today, but two-and-a-half hours might be long enough to get there and back. If it wasn’t, I’d take the fine for being late. It would be worth getting this over with. So I grabbed my keys and headed out to the storage facility.
The test kit was simple enough to use. The ink was in a bottle that looked like shoe polish, with a felt applicator on the end to apply the fluid to the tire. Once that was done, I laid out the long, white paper and started the car, rolling it forward a few feet before shutting it off. Then I waited for the ink to dry, snapped a dozen photos, and rolled up the print before cleaning up the crap from the test kit. My heart pounded as I washed off the tire with the wipes that had been included and triple checked that I didn’t leave anything behind.
