“Just checking on my truck,” he said.

“The fuel line was sputtering on the drive in from Bismarck.”

“Your truck sounded fine when you pulled into the driveway two hours ago,” I said.

Clay looked at the floor, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

He didn’t try another excuse.

“Come stand by the desk,” I said.

He paused for a second, then came around the swivel chair and stopped next to my left shoulder.

I pressed the spacebar to play the file stamped twelve minutes past midnight on October eighteenth.