She became excited.
"Will we see your daddy?"
The young mechanic hesitated.
Then smiled sadly.
"Maybe."
The little girl studied his face.
"Is he nice?"
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then he looked toward the photograph on the shelf.
"He used to be the best man I knew."
The family arrived near Iron Hollow on Tuesday evening.
They stayed at a modest roadside motel fifteen minutes from the garage.
The little girl loved the room.
It had two large beds, a television, and a window overlooking a small parking lot with autumn-colored trees.
She immediately placed her stuffed rabbit on the pillow nearest the window.
Her mother unpacked their clothes.
The young mechanic sat at the small table, studying the anonymous letter again.
He hadn't told his father he was coming.
He wanted to understand the evidence before risking another confrontation.
The following morning, he drove to the county records office.
He requested copies of several business documents and reviewed filings connected to the garage's old charity account.
The records raised additional questions.
A company that had supposedly supplied salvage parts to Iron Hollow years earlier was connected to the business partner's family.
Several invoices used the same business address.
And one payment authorization appeared to have been submitted after the son had already left town.
That last detail made his hands tremble.
If the account continued using his credentials after he disappeared, the allegation that he'd personally authorized every payment became harder to sustain.
He photographed the available records.
Then contacted his attorney.
The lawyer told him not to confront the suspected person.
He needed more documentation.
A complete financial history.
And potentially independent forensic review.
The young mechanic agreed.
But later that afternoon, another message arrived.
It came from an unfamiliar number.
I have the original storage records. Meet me tomorrow at the old salvage yard. Come alone.
He stared.
His wife looked toward him.
"Who sent it?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
She frowned.
"Then don't go."
He studied the message.
For a moment, he looked torn.
The salvage yard stood on the edge of town, near the same industrial corridor where Iron Hollow operated.
Years earlier, the garage had used it to dispose of damaged motorcycles and unwanted parts.
The location was familiar.
But the invitation wasn't.
His wife urged him to contact his attorney.
He did.
The attorney advised against attending an unverified meeting alone and recommended preserving the message.