Her curls bounce again. “No. No one was in the cab that I could tell. I was going pretty fast, so I can’t swear that no one was inside; but as I whizzed by in my Jeep, I did think to myself that it was a dumb place to park. Shoulder there’s not great. Ten yards past there is a wider spot on the shoulder. Even has a picnic table there.”

“If you saw the truck again, do you think you could ID it?”

“Like for real or a photo?”

“Either,” I say.

She looks at me. She’s putting the puzzle pieces together. I can see it.

“That means you know who the truck belongs to, don’t you?”

“I can’t tell you anything about the investigation,” I tell her.

She pushes back from the table. “That’s not really fair,” she says, her demeanor moving swiftly from concerned citizen to irritated twentysomething. “I’m telling you a whole lot, and my followers probably deserve an update.”

Her last words get to me. I wonder if she’s made up the truck now. I wonder if she posted her story just so she could add something to a popular news feed and get a lot of so-called likes. I hate that Montrose might be right about social media. I see it as potentially powerful in crime solving. Montrose sees it as a chance for every weirdo on the planet to insert him- or herself into a criminal investigation.

For likes.

I thank Sheila for her time and tell her that I’ll be in touch. She might have seen the red truck. It might have been Jim Coyle’s. And while it was true that he’d lied to us about driving his truck to Longview, it was pretty thin evidence. No judge was going to let us push around someone who was previously, though only partly, the victim of a false police report.

“That news reporter from Seattle wants to talk to me now that I’m part of the investigation,” Sheila says. “Can I?”

“We don’t tell citizens whether they can go on TV or not. It’s up to you.”

“What should I tell her?” she asks. “About the person of interest.”

I’m exasperated now. “You can tell her anything you want. I haven’t told you anything here, so leave me out of it.”

Sheila pretends to look hurt. I know she’s not.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” she says as I lead her back to Reception and the door to the outside.

“I appreciate that,” I lie. “Thank you for coming in, Sheila.”

I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Montrose’s going to tell me so. I’m going to deserve whatever snide remark he makes about it. I’m going to sit there and take it. The only way out will be the truth.

And I have no idea what that is.