Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

Sam scratched the back of his head, eyes flashing. “I’m sorry, okay? I just . . . I’m at a dead end right now. I’ve interviewed the people he worked with, looked into his phone records, even called his parents in Mexico. I went to Stillwater and tried to track down Luisa, but I didn’t have any luck. I’m not even sure who she was seeing there. Duane is still looking good for the murder, but I don’t like that I can’t find Leo’s ex. I’ve got a BOLO on her car, but so far no hits. Then Ayaan basically handed me the Amanda Jordan case because she’s treating it like a homicide, so I’ve been reviewing the notes and tips all night.”

“Wait, what?” Elle’s stomach sank the way it did when she looked down from a tall building. “Did you say Ayaan is treating Amanda’s case like a homicide? Like, officially?”

For a moment, Sam blinked at her. Then he swore and looked around, as if checking to see whether there were any witnesses. They were alone in the lobby, though. “I thought you knew. She’s been missing for four days, with no sign of life. There’s a very good chance she is dead. That’s why I’m assisting her now.”

Elle shook her head, pushing down a wave of anger. It was understandable that Ayaan would hold information back from her, but it still felt like a betrayal. She had never been a part of this investigation, not really. Then she realized something. If Sam was following her, asking for help with his murder investigation, he probably didn’t know yet that Ayaan had removed her from the Jordan case. This might be her only chance to get some more details on its progress before he found out she was persona non grata at Minneapolis PD.

“Were any of the tips from the composite sketch promising?” she asked.

Sam let out a frustrated breath. “Not really. One person thought they saw a van matching the getaway vehicle’s description heading north on Snelling a few days ago, but that’s it. Now, can you help me with the Toca case or not?”

“Not.” She thought for a moment, then her gaze flicked to Sam’s face. “Or maybe so. You know what’s on Snelling, don’t you?”

He stared at her for a moment before his eyes lit up. “The auto shop. Let’s go.”

“Me too?” she asked, trying not to sound excited.

“You gonna wait until I change my mind?”

“Nope.”

While Sam drove, she scrolled through the news on her phone. All the local papers had an article about Natalie, although they barely gave her name a cursory mention. To everyone else, she was simply another young girl goes missing in the southern suburbs of Minneapolis. Elle blinked tears away, pushed her worry for Natalie into the dusty compartment in her mind she had developed when she worked at CPS. That was where she put all the rage and terror and pain until she could breathe again, focus again. It had been the only thing that made the job bearable. She knew Martín had one too—as did everyone who worked in jobs that dealt with the worst of humanity.

At Simple Mechanic, Duane Grove stood outside in front of the massive garage door that looked like it could accommodate a semitruck. His bristled cheeks were flushed, and he had a scowl on his face when he saw Sam and Elle step out of the car. No smile necessary. Not customers.

“Hiya, Duane,” Sam said, his tone chipper.

“What are you doing here?” Duane looked back and forth between her and Sam. “Hey, aren’t you the lady who—”

“Yeah, I’m the one who found you with Leo’s body.”

His face reddened further. “Detective, me and my guys answered all your questions last week. You had our shop closed for almost a whole day, made us lose a few grand in business. I told y’all, I had nothing to do with his murder, and I don’t know who does.”

“I’m not here about Leo.” Sam looked at Elle and then back at Duane. “We are here about a car. A van, actually.”

Duane sighed with a little growl behind it, looked over his shoulder, and then gestured them toward the inside area attached to the garage. They followed him, and Elle relished the blast of heat as they entered his little fun-size office. There was barely enough space to walk around the desk, but Duane squeezed past with a practiced ease. Elle sat in the only other available chair, letting Sam watch the door.

Plastic storage drawers and containers were stacked floor to ceiling against the wall to Elle’s right, so close one brushed her elbow when she set it on the armrest. The small patches of carpet she could see were gray with years of ground-in dirt and sand. Smudges of motor oil streaked the surface of the light brown desk where Duane rested his clenched hands.

“All right, what’s this van?” Duane asked. He pulled his beanie off, rubbing a hand over his shaved head.

“I’m working on a case,” Sam said. “We have a blue 2001 Dodge Ram 1500 van, no plates, fleeing the scene. Seen anything like that around here lately?” Sam took out his phone and showed it to Leo. Elle could see the same security footage she and Ayaan had reviewed a couple days ago on the screen.

Pushing his lower lip out pensively, Duane shrugged. He barely glanced at the photo. “Do you mean, have I changed oil for a car like that lately? Probably. I see about thirty cars a day in here, sometimes more.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, Duane, you might not be a murderer, but you and I both know you’re not a mechanic either. Or at least, that’s not all you are. I’ve looked into you the past week. Talked to some of your friends locked up in Hennepin County, and it seems like you run a pretty lucrative ‘car part repurposing’ business in here.”

Duane’s expression did not change, but he said