Page 68 of What She Saw
Sloane
Sunday, August 17, 2025, 7:30 p.m.
The dream catcher dangled from my rearview mirror as I parked in front of the Bistro. Inside customers filled small tables, and servers moved around the Italian-style restaurant. It hadn’t been open thirty-one years ago, so I’d not paid attention to it. I glanced down at my T-shirt and jeans. Not dressy, but they’d have to do.
I walked up to a greeter. He glanced up from an iPad. A frown suggested he was ready to tell me to hit the road.
“I’m meeting Grant McKenna.”
Raised eyebrows and a slight nod. “He arrived about thirty minutes ago.”
I followed him through the packed dining room to a table in the back. As we approached, Grant stood. A gentleman. I didn’t meet many of those. “Sloane. I was beginning to wonder.”
I pulled out my chair and sat. “Sorry. An interview went long.”
He sat and motioned the waitress over. “What can I get you to drink?”
When she arrived, I glanced up at her. “A cola. With lots of ice.”
“Will do,” the waitress said.
“How are your interviews going?” He always stared at me with keen interest.
“Hard to say yet. Everyone has been willing to talk to me. As expected, lots of emotion. Thirty-one years erases as many memories as it exposes.”
The waitress arrived with a cola in an iced glass. Condensation dripped down the sides as a thin layer of foam skimmed the top.
“Do you think you’ll find them?” he asked.
I sipped my soda, savoring the sweetness. “I’d rather hear about you. What brings you to Dawson? We’ve established our first meeting wasn’t by accident. I’m guessing you didn’t happen by the Nelson farm, did you?”
“No.”
“Do you work cases like this often?”
“Whenever local law enforcement calls, I try to assist.”
“That’s your job?”
“I’ve gotten my private investigator’s license. I do this pro bono.”
The waitress arrived with a large pizza and set it on the table.
“I ordered,” Grant said. “Do you eat pizza, or would you like to order something else?”
“Pizza works for me.” The garlic and tomato smelled good, and I realized how hungry I was. “Salads waste my time.”
We each served ourselves pizza. I folded my slice like a taco and took a bite. We both ate in silence. Finally, he set his slice down and wiped his fingers on a cloth napkin. His nails were neat and even but not professionally done. He liked order, but he wasn’t fussy.
“What do you like?” he asked. “Beyond the work.”
“It’s all about the work,” I said. “That drives me.”
“Why?”
“Your work doesn’t drive you?”
“It’s not the first thing on my mind when I wake up in the morning.”
