Chapter 37
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Wren’s mom had gone back to see Christian a couple of hours ago and hadn’t come out since. Meanwhile, Wren and her sisters had called their father—he was on his way. Then they simply waited.
Marlowe came back from the vending machines with a bag of pretzels she didn’t open. “You’ll never guess who I ran into by the elevators.”
“I’m not guessing,” Nora murmured. “I’m way too tired for that.”
“Coach Ferris.” Marlowe dropped into the chair between them. “Mason’s coach, right? He knew who I was before I knew who he was.”
Wren turned that over. “What’s he doing here?”
“Something about his nephew being here. I didn’t catch all of it.” Marlowe finally worked the bag open.
“He seems like a nice guy,” Wren said.
Marlowe held out the bag. “You want these? I don’t even know why I bought them.”
Wren shook her head and let it go.
She only hoped Tate didn’t hear about Christian and tell anyone.
A little after ten, Nash texted Wren and asked to meet in the cafeteria so they could grab some food and talk privately. She excused herself.
Four people were scattered throughout the space, each appearing solemn. Wren carried some soup to a table by the window, and Nash sat across from her with a sandwich and chips. He’d insisted on paying, and she hadn’t had the energy to argue.
“Well?” Wren started, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. What had he discovered? It must be something important if he’d asked her to meet privately.
Nash blew out a breath before starting. “The man at that gas station knew Roy. He said he came out every week for years. Filled his tank, plus two gas cans, and he bought two sandwiches.”
“Two?”
He nodded. “We found that interesting. He also turned left out of the lot every time.”
She furrowed her brow. “What’s to the left of the station?”
“Nothing much.” Nash picked up his sandwich. “There’s more. Roy told him once he had someone he liked to check on out that way.”
Wren set her spoon down. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Luke’s pulling property records for everything out along that road,” Nash continued. “He’ll have something in a day or two.”
Wren frowned. “Roy may not have taken Christian himself, but he knew something.”
“I agree. The FBI will be here tomorrow. Maybe they can tell us more. It will be more manpower and resources, at least.”
Neither of them said anything as they ate. Wren’s soup had no flavor, but she forced herself to keep eating.
“How are you dealing with all of this?” Nash studied her a moment. “Not the superficial version you’ve been handing everybody else all day. How are you really doing?”
She opened her mouth, about to give him a generic response on autopilot. Then she rethought her reply. Nash was here, and he was a good listener. And she could probably use a listening ear. Besides, he’d asked for a real answer.
“I . . . I don’t know, to be honest. I keep waiting to feel some kind of explosion of emotions, but I haven’t yet. In the meantime, I just keep moving to the next thing that needs doing. One foot in front of the other.”
“That’s how these things work. The feelings usually come later, often at the most inopportune time.”
“That’s comforting.” She let out a breath and frowned. But she knew his words were true. Grief and trauma were strange beasts, nearly impossible to control and direct.
“It’s honest.” He shrugged. “Comforting is above my pay grade right now.”
“I can appreciate your honesty. Truly.”
A few more seconds passed.
“Where’s Mason?” Nash finally asked before taking the last bite of his sandwich. “He’s not here at the hospital, right?”
“He’s with his dad.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s his dad like? Were you married?”
Wren pushed her paper bowl away. “No, we never married. I went through a rebellious phase, and as a result became a teen mom. Cody definitely didn’t want to be a dad, so I told him I’d do it without him. But a few years ago, something changed, and he got his act together.”
“I’m glad he finally came around. I’m sure balancing everything as a single mom has to be complicated.”
“It is. But Cody’s a good father to Mason now. That’s the most important thing.”
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.
Her gaze met his one last time. “Thank you. For all of it.”
“Any time.”
Then she was gone through the door with her sister.