He had seen George’s car in the tow yard the day after the accident because the yard shared a service lane with the feed-supply lot near his clinic. He said the official report called it a loss of control on a dangerous curve. That happened often enough on Morfield Pass, especially in wet weather. But George’s car, he told me, did not look right for a simple brake-and-slide rollover.
“What do you mean?”
Cole stirred his coffee once, slow and thoughtful.
“I mean your husband hit the guardrail too straight for the skid pattern reported. I mean there was less panic-correction damage than I’d expect from a man surprised by a curve. And I mean one of the brake lines looked wrong to me.”
I stared at him.
“Wrong how?”
“Cut isn’t a word I’d use lightly. But compromised? Maybe. Clean enough it made me remember it.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
He looked ashamed.
“Because I’m a veterinarian, Mrs. Pierce. Not a crash reconstruction specialist. I didn’t have enough to stand on, and by the time I thought harder about it, the vehicle was already released for salvage.”
He slid a folded card across the table.
“But if the sheriff reopens the case, I’ll make a statement.”