Evan nodded.
“My wife works here too.”
“Then think about her.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Finally, Wade continued.
“I'm asking you to be careful. Not to repeat something that could be misunderstood.”
Evan looked toward the window.
A recovery truck was leaving the yard.
He'd spent four years believing he was working for a company that helped people.
Now he was beginning to suspect that certain assignments had been designed to take vehicles rather than recover them.
He swallowed.
“Can I see the original dispatch?”
Wade stared.
Then answered coldly.
“No.”
Evan left the office feeling as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
That evening, he told his wife everything.
She listened quietly.
Then asked one question.
“Are you going to lie for him?”
Evan stared at the floor.
For a long time, he didn't answer.
Finally, he whispered, “I don't know how to protect us if I don't.”
His wife took his hand.
“Then talk to a lawyer before you decide that lying is protection.”
The following morning, Evan contacted an attorney.
Two days later, through counsel, he informed investigators that he possessed information relevant to the towing records.
And that changed the direction of the case.
Trent Halverson made his decision on a Sunday evening.
He was sitting at the kitchen table while his wife, Emily, folded tiny baby clothes beside him. Their daughter was due in seven weeks, and the spare bedroom upstairs was already filled with boxes, a crib, and more blankets than Trent thought one baby could possibly need.
Emily noticed he hadn't touched his dinner.
“What's wrong?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
She stared.
“Trent.”
He looked away.
For a moment, his face became tight.
Then he whispered, “I think I've been helping the sheriff do things he shouldn't.”
Emily stopped folding.
She was thirty-one, worked as a public-school counselor, and knew enough about her husband's job to recognize when he wasn't merely upset about an unpleasant shift.
“What things?”
Trent swallowed.
He told her about the Ducati.
About the sheriff questioning ownership before establishing a reason for the stop.
About the shove.
About the handcuffs.
And about the tow truck arriving with information that seemed to predate the incident.
Then he told her what Kavalik said afterward.
Keep the report simple.
Emily stared at him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she asked, “What did you write?”
Trent looked toward his hands.
“I haven't submitted the final report.”
She exhaled slowly.