Chapter 6 - County Records And A Missing Name
I didn't sleep after my shift. I dropped Lily at school right at eight when the doors opened, watched her backpack disappear into the line of kids, and then I kept my hands on the steering wheel of my old Honda for a full minute because I didn't want to drive home to an empty apartment.
The county sheriff's office was on Maple, a low brick building next to the courthouse with a flag that snapped hard in the morning wind. I'd never been inside except to pay a parking ticket two years back. The lobby smelled like coffee and floor cleaner. A thick glass partition separated the waiting chairs from the records desk.
A woman in her fifties sat behind it, short gray hair, reading glasses on a chain. Her nameplate said D. HARRIS.
"I need a crash report," I said. "From three weeks ago. Highway 9, night. Car fire."
She didn't look up right away. "Date?"
"October 8th. Late. After eleven, maybe." My voice sounded thin. "A black sedan burned."
She typed, frowned. The keyboard was loud in the quiet room.
"Single-vehicle fire on the 8th," she said. "Mile marker 14. Is that the one?"
My chest tightened. "I think so. Can I get a copy?"
"ID?" I slid my license through the tray. She copied it, printed something, and pushed three pages across under the glass with a receipt for seven dollars. "Sign here."
I sat on one of the plastic chairs bolted to the floor. The fluorescent light buzzed over my head. I read the first page twice.
According to the report, at 11:42 p.m. a 2021 black Mercedes sedan left the roadway, struck a guardrail, and caught fire. Driver self-extricated. No passengers. No other vehicles involved. No injuries requiring transport.
That was wrong. I remembered the heat on my face, the way the driver's door had jammed, the way I'd had to brace my foot against the frame to pull him out. He hadn't self-extricated. He'd been slumped over the wheel, bleeding from his temple, barely conscious. If I hadn't stopped, he would have burned with that car.
And there was no mention of me. No witness listed. No 911 call from my number, even though I knew I'd called. My hands were shaking so bad that night I almost dropped the phone.
I went back to the window. "Excuse me. This says single car. There — I was there. There was another car."
Mrs. Harris looked at me over her glasses. "Are you saying you were a witness?"
I hesitated. Last night his voice was still in my ears. We need to talk about your daughter. I didn't want my name in any system connected to that crash.
"No," I lied. "I just — I drove past after. I thought I saw two cars. The debris looked like —"
She cut me off, not unkindly. "Honey, I just pull what the deputy filed. If it says single-vehicle, that's what was filed."
"But the time's off," I said, pointing through the glass. "This says 11:42. The fire was already big by 11:15. I checked my clock when I — when I passed."
She sighed and turned back to her screen, scrolling. "There's a flag here," she murmured, more to herself than me. "Huh."
"What flag?"
She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "There's a sealed insurance inquiry attached to this case number. Filed four days later. That means someone from an insurer requested the full file and then it got locked. We can't release anything beyond the summary you got."
My mouth went dry. "Locked by who?"
"I can't see that from here. It just says restricted. That's not normal for a simple guardrail fire with no injuries."
I stared at her. "So someone cleaned it up?"
She gave me a sharp look and tapped her pen once on the counter. "I didn't say that. I'm saying if you want more, you'll need a written request and maybe a lawyer. Or talk to the deputy who filed it, but he's on leave."
Outside, the wind hit my face as soon as I pushed through the double doors. I sat on the low concrete wall by the sidewalk and spread the pages on my lap so they wouldn't blow away. Single-car fire. Self-extricated. No witnesses. Every line was neat and clean and false.
Someone had taken what happened on Highway 9 that night — him, me, the other headlights I'd seen swerving away just before the guardrail — and erased it down to one car and no one hurt. And then they'd sealed whatever was left.
May you like
I folded the report and shoved it in my purse. My hands were cold but steady now. For the first time since he'd leaned in across the diner table, I didn't wonder if he was lying.
I needed him to tell me what really burned that night.
