They both stood, and Styles grabbed the car keys from his desk. It would be a long shot sniffing around Atlas, but as long as they stuck to their story of investigating Natasha Barclay there should be no ripples to knock Simmons and Gibson off course with their case. Piecing together a profile of a man from more than three decades ago wouldn’t be easy. Quite the opposite, but Nathan Barclay was the only one they had any reason to suspect, even if it was based solely for now on the ambiguity of his last words.

Styles couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like for Barclay’s world to come crumbling down around him; first his marriage, then his business, to the point where he felt like he only had one way out. He had known people crack under less pressure, had seen it first-hand on the cases he had worked. Had that pressure built up to the point where its release was so forceful, so unbridled, that he had lashed out and hurt his own flesh and blood? Styles felt a sense of sadness wash over him at the thought. Either way, he doubted that justice could truly be meted out. If Barclay was responsible, he would never see the inside of a courtroom, never have to live with the hurt he had caused. If he was innocent, then Natasha’s disappearance was just another layer of tragedy heaped upon a family that had already suffered through more than most, and his investigation would be right back where it began.

He could tell from the way Porter was acting that the case had gotten under his skin. The notion that someone could have met an untimely end and not had anyone make a serious effort for over thirty years to find them clearly did not sit well with him. Nobody had ever been convicted of Holly’s death, either, and maybe Porter saw this one going the same way. The ease with which the Lockes had accepted Natasha’s disappearance without question clearly bothered him, too, and made him even more determined that somebody should speak up for Natasha. Somebody needed to be held accountable for whatever had happened to her, and if her own family wouldn’t do it then it might as well be them.

It was almost noon by the time they pulled up outside the main gates to the warehouse, and the intensity of the sun in the cloudless February sky offered false hope of warmth as Porter and Styles both shielded their eyes from its glare. The dashboard display showed it was a brisk four degrees outside the comfort of their car, although the stiff breeze would cut that in half.