The guard walked away without another word. In the side mirror, Herb watched the dark figure round the back of the pickup, light bobbing over the pavement in front of him. His movements were slow, hesitant.
Herb turned toward the rear-view mirror. The guard lingered near the tailgate, aiming the beam down at the license plate. Chest pounding, Herb saw him reach into his jacket and produce a notebook. The guard was going to record his plate number. Touching his eyes, Herb shook his head. This night had gone gravely wrong.
His life, with his future hanging in the balance, now seemed to concentrate itself on this guard and that notebook in his hand. If the body of Trixy Ambré washed ashore somewhere, Herb could become a suspect. They would know he wasn’t from Halifax, a stranger with no connections here.
He imagined the police, guns drawn, storming his farmhouse, clapping handcuffs on his wrists, grilling him with their questions. He would remain steadfast in his innocence. Deny everything to the bitter end.
He knew their subsequent investigation could uncover the rest—a case beyond their imaginations.