“But she warned her brother. She didn’t plan for him to die.”
“You confronted Blaine with a gun to spook him, prove you were serious. A threat that went as bad as it can go. In your case and Nicole’s. That’s what makes you uncomfortable. You hear her story, and you think it’s forgivable. Yet if her situation parallels your own, what does that mean for you?”
“I need to separate the cases.”
“Or you could—crazy idea—confront and reconcile the problem? Admit that on a culpability scale for murder, killing Blaine only rates about five.”
“I need to separate the cases.”
He sighs. “Fine, so moving on to the other part that’s bothering you…”
He’s gone still again. He doesn’t stop moving, but he’s scanning the darkening forest. When I squint into the trees, I sense nothing. Neither does Storm, who’s trotting along ahead of us.
Dalton shakes it off and says, “The problem is the fact that accusing her of voluntarily living in that hole is preposterous. Especially without a motive. So you’re wondering why the council gave it to you.”
“You don’t actually need a detective, do you?”
“Sure, I do, because my answer is ‘because they’re assholes.’ I’m gonna guess you need more.”
“I do. It’s like they expect we’ll be so freaked out by this that we’ll jump on any other explanation, however flimsy.”
“Or they’re jumping on it.”
“Why? Is it just because terrible crimes are terribly inconvenient? Like trying to cover up a murder in a fancy hotel?”
“Maybe.”
“It bugs me.”
“I know.”
I’m about to say more when he tenses again, his eyes narrowing. This time, I ask, “What do you see?”
He takes another slow look around. Then he makes a face. “Nothing. Just jumpy.”
“Are you sure?”
Another scan. “Mostly.”
I take out my gun. “If you think there’s someone out there, we should investigate.”
He looks from me to Storm and then back at the forest.
“We’re not going to tromp in there with a gun and a puppy when it’s just me being rattled,” he says. “We should head back. It’s almost dark, and we didn’t bring a flashlight.”
He looks at my gun as I put it away. “Good to see you’re okay with pulling that. Proves you’re capable of progress. Just very slowly.”
I flip him the finger. He tugs the glove from my pocket and holds it out. “Wouldn’t want that to get frostbite.”
I shake my head and put on one glove, my other hand going into his. As we leave, I cast one last glance around the forest as he’s tugging Storm onto the path.
I don’t see anyone. Don’t hear anyone. Don’t even sense anyone. But if Dalton did? Someone’s there, watching us. I know it.
TWENTY-ONE
I want to talk to Val. I’m on my way there, alone, Dalton having taken Storm to the station. People are heading home after work, which makes it Rockton’s rush hour. I avoid the main street. I’m halfway to my goal when I catch a glimpse of motion between two buildings, and I spin.
It’s a woman. Middle-aged. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Unremarkable in every way. The sort of person who fades into a crowd. And, in this case, one person I wish would fade into it.
“Don’t shoot!” Jen says, hands going up. “Little quick on the trigger, aren’t you, Detective?”
My hand hasn’t even dipped toward my gun. “Do you want something, Jen?”
“Just to tell you you’re a bitch.”
I sigh and resume walking. “Second verse, same as the first. Any particular reason today? Or are you just reminding me that I haven’t changed your opinion?”
“You don’t give a shit about changing my opinion.” She stops in front of me. “You pretend that you’re on our side—the women of this town. But you’re no different than all the big-shot bitches down south, ready to stomp us first chance you get. Do you actually honestly think Nicki put herself in that hole?”
I go still. “Who told you—”
“I was taking her a care package and spotted your rottweiler boyfriend on the front porch. So I went around back and stepped inside.”
“How much did you overhear?”
“Enough.”
“You’re right—questioning her story is a shitty thing to do, which means I had cause. So, tell me, why did I do it?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Then maybe you should ask, instead of leaping to the conclusion that I’m evil. You really are a broken record, Jen. You need to find new tracks to play.”
“She doesn’t know any,” says a voice behind us.
I don’t need to turn to say, “Hello, Mathias.”
He joins us, meeting Jen’s scowl with a mocking bow. “Jennifer, it is always a pleasure. May I say you look radiant this evening.”
“Fuck off, old man.”
He turns to me. “You wonder why Jennifer cannot find new tracks to play? She knows none. Learned behavior. A lifetime of being bullied has turned her into one. It happens, sadly.”
“What?” she squawks. “You crazy old man.”
“You were significantly larger when you arrived, Jennifer, and you carry yourself in a way that suggested you have always been a big girl. Your hair looked like you cut it yourself. And your clothing? You did not shop in thrift stores because it was trendy, did you, Jennifer?”