Reese looked at the note without surprise. He had seen Willa startle when a dark car slowed beside the sidewalk and had privately wondered how long it would be before her past arrived in town. "Don't confront him," Reese said. "And don't tell Willa yet. Not until we know whether we're looking at a coincidence or a problem."
"I think we both know it's a problem," Fig answered.
"Then we'll know more before we make it hers." Reese put the paper in the file drawer and looked out toward the street. Somewhere beyond the glass, the driver of the navy sedan was making decisions about a young woman who had finally found a place to work. Reese had never liked being told that someone under his roof should be frightened, but he had learned that anger was a poor substitute for knowing what to do next.
Reese's call to Aldis Kip took place after the evening crew had gone home. Aldis was not a member of Northern Shields and had never wanted to become one, although he had known Reese for fifteen years. He was a former municipal investigator who made a modest living doing records research, background work for attorneys, and the sort of careful fact-finding that began with public documents rather than threats. When he said he could look into something quietly, Reese knew he meant quietly enough that the result would still be usable if the matter ever reached a lawyer.
"I need to know who is watching my garage," Reese said. "There's a young woman working here, twenty-four, calls herself Willa Hart. She came from west of here. I believe somebody followed her, but I don't want stories. I want something I can confirm."
Aldis asked for the license plate and the dates Fig had observed it. He listened without interrupting, then asked whether Willa had told Reese where she lived before coming to Coldmare. Reese said only that she had moved around and had once mentioned West Haven. Aldis promised to check vehicle and business information through legitimate channels and call back when he had something worth saying. Reese knew better than to ask for a miracle or to imagine that private familiarity gave anybody access to whatever records they wanted.
Aldis called fourteen hours later, at eleven forty that night. Reese was at his kitchen table with the garage invoices spread around a mug of tea and a light on in the hall. He had not been sleeping well, though he refused to say that Willa was the reason. He answered on the second ring.
"The surname's the first thing," Aldis said. "The woman you know as Willa Hart is legally Willa Deacon. Hart was her mother's family name. Her father was Grant Henry Deacon, owner of a repair business in West Haven."
Reese put down his pen. He had not heard Grant's name in months, and the sudden return of it made the room feel much smaller. "Grant Deacon? The mechanic?"
"You know him?"