I wait for Val to snap something. But she doesn’t even seem to hear him. She’s already retreating into the house, saying, “Suit yourself, Sheriff,” as she motions me in.
We settle in the living room. Val has left her sweet roll on the table. I’ve put mine down, and I’m waiting, but she just sits there.
“How does she say it happened?” Val asks.
“What?”
“The young—” She stops. Waits a beat, and then says, “Nicole,” as if she knew the name but is reluctant to admit it. “How does she say the initial attack happened?”
“She was picking berries when she was hit from behind.”
“Where did she say this took place?”
“A hundred feet or so from town.”
“She went berry picking at night?”
“It was evening and still light out.”
Val plucks imaginary lint from her dress pants. I don’t know why she wears dress pants. It’s not as if she goes out and meets people. But as she fusses, her hands tremble.
“Val?” I say.
“Was it one man? That’s what your report says, but is she certain? Only one?”
Shortly after Val arrived in Rockton, she disappeared while on militia patrol. Dalton was the one who found her, and she told him she’d just gotten lost. She admitted to me that she’d been taken by two men, whom she’d tricked, escaping unharmed. She did not escape unharmed. No one’s going to capture a woman, threaten her, and then fall asleep, having done nothing in between. To Val’s mind, though, “allowing” anything would be a sign of weakness. So she did not.
“Nicole is certain it’s one man,” I say, but Val doesn’t relax. She just looks up and says, “What do you think of her story?”
“Story?” I try not to bristle. It’s just poor word choice, but I’ve been known to use it myself. “I’m not sure it’s possible to think anything other than that it’s terrible. Unbelievably terrible. If you’re suggesting—” I pause. Rephrase. “We’re all concerned, of course, that it could happen again. That her captor knows about Rockton and may take another woman. We’ve doubled night patrols, and we’re going to be careful about letting women outside the boundaries. As sexist as that will seem, I think everyone will understand. We have a predator—”
“What evidence do you have to support Nicole’s claims?”
I think I’ve misheard. Or at least misunderstood, and I answer with a startled “What?”
It takes Val a moment to respond, and she does as if reluctantly. “Nicole claims that she was held captive for more than a year. What evidence do you have to support that?”
I resist the urge to blink at her. Instead, I say, “I found her in that hole. Severely malnourished. She has muscle atrophy and vision damage. If you are suggesting she put herself there…” I struggle for words and finally end with, “I’m not even sure what to do with that.”
“The council—” She inhales. Clears her throat. “The council would like to suggest that you more thoroughly question Nicole’s story.”
“She was raped, Val.”
Her hands start to shake, and she cups them together. “Do you have evidence?”
I stare at her.
“The council would like you to consider the possibility she orchestrated this tragedy herself.”
“You’re … you’re suggesting she starved herself and stayed in a pit until her muscles atrophied—”
“The council suggests it. They insisted I relay their concerns.” Val holds out a sheaf of papers. “I took notes.”
“Notes on what?”
“Nicole’s true story. The council believes we are the victims of a hoax.”
* * *
As furious as I am, I should have anticipated the council’s response. This case is messy. They don’t like messy. This past fall, it took three deaths for them to admit Rockton had a killer.
Dalton and I are back at the station. He starts the fire, and I sit in front of it, on the caribou blankets, with my notebook and Val’s papers.
Dalton starts to sit with me and then rises with a grunt. “Better find something to do or I’ll be reading over your shoulder.”
“I don’t mind if it’s you.”
He sits beside me again, and I shift up against him, and we read in silence until we’ve finished. I turn the last page and then sit there for at least a minute before I say, “They could be lying, right?”
Dalton doesn’t answer. After a few moments, I say, “I want to think they’re making it all up. And they could be making some of it up. Exaggerating. They probably are.”
“Yeah.”
I lay my hand on the notes. “This doesn’t mean Nicole did this to herself. I can’t imagine anyone doing that.” I twist to look at him. “I hate even considering it. I know how you operate up here. If a woman comes to you and says she was sexually assaulted, you start from a position of presuming she’s telling the truth.”
“Of course.”
“That’s not how it works down south. We try to treat all crimes the same, but a woman claiming assault often bears the burden of proof. Do you know how many times I raged because Diana wasn’t believed when she accused her ex of abusing her, stalking her? And then it turned out—”
“Yeah. And you can stop beating yourself up over that.”