Chapter 3
The mechanic stepped down onto the cold asphalt, his boots shuffling reluctantly against the grit. He was of medium height, with thinning grey hair and a greasy cap pulled low over his forehead. Officer Henderson directed him toward the open space near the rear of the patrol car, well away from the white van and far enough from Maya and her parents to prevent any direct eye contact. Maya kept her gaze locked on the ground, her fingers nervously tracing the jagged edges of the deep purple bruise pulsing fiercely around her eye.
"Your name and what you're hauling in that transport," Officer Henderson instructed, pulling a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket.
"My name is Arthur Vance," the man replied, clearing his throat and glancing nervously toward Maya’s parents. "I run a mobile parts delivery service. Auto components, mostly. Belts, filters, transmissions. I was just pulling over to check a loose hose under the chassis. I didn't mean any harm, officer. I’ve got all my permits right here in the glove box." Arthur reached slowly into his breast pocket, but Henderson immediately raised a warning hand to halt the movement.
"Hands on the hood, Mr. Vance," the officer commanded softly, his tone brook no argument. Arthur sighed heavily, complying with exaggerated reluctance as Henderson patted him down efficiently.
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Maya’s father stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. The restraint he had maintained since the police arrived was beginning to fracture at the edges. "That’s the man," he said, his voice deep and shaking with controlled fury. "That’s the van that was parked outside our neighborhood community center the night Maya vanished." Officer Henderson held up a single hand, signaling for calm without taking his eyes off Arthur Vance. The procedural discipline of the officer acted as a stabilizing anchor for a family on the verge of emotional collapse.
Arthur turned his head slightly, offering a strained, apologetic smile that did not reach his cold, calculating eyes. "There must be some terrible mistake," Arthur murmured smoothly, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "People lose track of vehicles all the time. White vans are everywhere on these interstate corridors. It’s a common make, common model." But the bloodhound sitting quietly beside the patrol car let out a low, warning growl, its sensitive nose twitching as it caught another distinct scent drifting from the open door of the van.
