Page 96 of Flint’s Strike

“There’s a camera by the front desk.” Carol’s still looking at the fob. “I don’t know how long we keep it, though.”

“We’re going to need that fob,” I say. “Along with the envelope and anything that can corroborate the time on that return—sign-in log, security footage, whatever exists.”

“Of course.” She’s already tucking Roger’s personal items back into the envelope, and passes it to me. “You take all of this, and I’ll see what else I can get you. Might be a couple of days, but I won’t leave you hangin’.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Parker

I breathe in the scents of burnt coffee and fryer oil. Dot’s is a local Austin institution—one where no one questions the lack of a health department certification on the wall.

We’re early enough to get the small booth in the back corner. It’s quieter here, the air a little fresher only steps from the back door, and we don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing details of an active investigation.

The server, Nan, takes one look at us and shoves her order pad back into her apron. “The usual?”

“Unless Dot finally put a salad on the menu,” Nate says, his tone that of a man who’s given up all hope.

“Three years and you never get tired of askin’.” She shakes her head. “There ain’t a chance in hell she’s gonna do that for one customer. I’ll get your order started.”

“Nan, can you make my milkshake strawberry this week? Please?”

“You got it, hon.” She’s gone before she finishes the sentence, and I slump against the back of the booth, where the vinyl’s held together with duct tape and prayers.

“You think Todd’s telling the truth?” Nate asks, pulling a napkin from the dispenser and wiping down the table in front of him.

“Airline confirmations can be faked. But who posts on social media, pays off a whole mess of people to wish him happy anniversary, and tags his wife in the photo?”

Nate sighs. “I’m gonna pull every inspection Todd’s done for his whole damn career. We’re stopping at Office-R-Us on the way back to the station. I need the jewel-toned highlighter set.”

“You have twelve colors already. If you buy any more, AJ’s gonna send you for a psych eval.”

He unwraps a straw, folding the thin, white paper in half with deliberate slowness. “I’ve spent enough time in psychologists’ offices to know they won’t care about the highlighters.”

“You joke, but⁠—”

“I never joke about highlighters.” His voice doesn’t hold its typical humor, and he creases the straw wrapper again and again.

Nan comes back with my loaded french fry plate, the strawberry milkshake, and Nate’s club sandwich with a side of extra pickles.

“Fries are hot,” she warns.

Nate arches a brow as she rushes off to the next table. “She says that every week. As if I haven’t lost enough fights with molten potatoes.”

“Nate—”

“Not today,” he says with a tiny shake of his head. “Today is about your strawberry milkshake. If you want it to be. If not, I saw this documentary on octopuses last night.”

“Don’t you mean octopi?” I grab the straw, take a long pull of frozen strawberry comfort, and wait for the tingle of almost brain freeze to hit.

“No. It’s actually octopuses. The root word is Greek, not Latin. Did you know each one of those eight arms has its own brain?”

I’ve listened to enough Nate tangents to recognize the warning signs. He’s less than three seconds away from explaining octopus neurology in exhausting detail.

It would be so easy to take the exit. To let him fill the silence with random facts and pretend I didn’t promise to tell him something real.

“My mom had dementia.”

Nate leans back in the booth, his sandwich ignored on his plate, waiting. Letting me decide how much I’m willing to share.