Page 245 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

“It was your typical navy-blue Red Sox, but you could tell he was trying to be discreet—hiding the fact that he was married.”

Nate blinked with the new angle the case was suddenly taking. “He was married? How do you know?”

“Buddy, I’ve owned a bar for more than half my life. I recognize when someone’s trying to keep a low profile—keeping their backs to the crowd and having a tan line where their wedding band should be.”

Fucking A. “But you don’t remember anything more about him? Was he tall? Maybe the color of his eyes? Any facial hair?”

“I couldn’t draw him for you or anything. He was probably on the taller side—darker-colored hair.”

“So he wasn’t a regular?”

“No. I only remember seeing him a few times—always when Sam was working.”

“What about after Samantha disappeared?”

“No. Don’t think so, but if I’m being honest, I can’t say I paid a whole lot of attention. Unless someone’s causing problems, they don’t get much more than a couple of glances.”

Nate understood Neil’s sentiments exactly. “So you don’t ever remember anyone bothering her—harassing her or anything?”

“No. Sam pretty much kept to herself—except for the married guy. She was reserved—friendly enough—but I wouldn’t call her an extrovert or anything. She was a beauty—slender build, but she was a city girl. My impression was that she could take care of herself.”

“Did anything seem different about her or out of character during her last few weeks or days at work?”

Neil sighed. “Probably about a month before Sam left, I found her crying in the bathroom right after we’d closed—all-out sobbing. Went in to mop—certainly wasn’t expecting to see her in there.”

Nate frowned. “Did she say anything about it?”

“No. I think she was embarrassed that I found her. She said she was fine and left, but Sam wasn’t one of those drama queens. It surprised me to see her so upset.”

“And nothing ever came of it?”

“No. She reported to her next shift like nothing ever happened. That’s the way she seemed to want it, so that’s the way I left it.”

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Durst. This has been great—really helpful.”

“I hope I did help—that you find her and she has an explanation for her kid. Although she never did pick up her last paycheck, which doesn’t play well in my mind now that I know the circumstances. Thought maybe she just didn’t want to face me all those years ago.”

Unfortunately, that had likely been the least of Samantha Fletcher’s problems. “You knew Samantha for a few months. What does your gut say happened to her?”

“She was responsible—seemed like a good kid. Loved her daughter. As much as I hate to say it, it sounds like she might have run into some bad circumstances.”

“Did Samantha ever mention knowing anyone in Hartford, Connecticut?”

“No. Or if she did, I don’t remember.”

“Mr. Durst, can I ask where you were the night of July 4, 1995?”

“At the bar getting my ass kicked, I’m sure. Independence Day is an all-hands-on-deck kind of night. It has been every year since we opened back in ’85.”

“Do you happen to remember what type of vehicle you were driving back then?”

“My little red Toyota pickup—still have it parked in the garage.”

“I appreciate it. If you think of anything else, I hope you’ll let me know.”

“I’ll make it a point to call again if I do.”

“Thank you.”