I nod.
“You ready to come inside?”
I hesitate, staring at the slowly falling snow.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “That’s a good idea. You sleep better out here.”
He starts rearranging the blankets into a bed and moves Storm to the foot of it. When she tries to sneak back up, a soft growl of warning makes her lie down, sighing. He lays a blanket over her.
I shake my head. “It’s cold. You won’t sleep.”
“Then you’ll just need to find a way to warm me up,” he says and pulls me down under the covers.
* * *
I wake to someone banging on the front door, and I decide I don’t hear it. I’m warm under the pile of blankets, curled up with my head on Dalton’s chest, Storm draped over his stomach, my one hand on her, feeling her heartbeat as I listen to Dalton’s. Even the bite of winter’s chill on my nose is almost pleasant, as if reminding me how good I have it otherwise, snuggled up under these blankets.
The banging continues.
Dalton doesn’t stir. Neither does Storm. And I decide that’s proof enough, it doesn’t exist. I’ve been woken twice this week by someone at the door. A third time is statistically impossible.
I bury my icy nose against Dalton, and his arms tighten around me. He murmurs in his sleep, no words I can make out, but it’s a contented murmur. When I shift, Storm sighs but again, it’s a contented sigh.
See? No one’s at the door. I’m dreaming, and when I wake, it’ll be morning, and I’ll sneak inside to make coffee and start breakfast, and Dalton will smell both and come down to take over the cooking and let me curl up in front of the fireplace. I’ll sip my coffee and warm myself by the fire with my puppy and watch my lover cook for me and marvel at what I could possibly have done in my life to deserve such good fortune.
That’s how my morning will go. It will be peaceful and perfect and—
“Answer the goddamned door!” Jen’s voice shouts. “I know you’re both in there.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Jen shouts again. Storm jumps up and joins in with an answering howl. I lunge to grab her. Dalton grunts and half opens one unfocused eye.
“Is that…,” he begins.
“No,” I say. “Go back to sleep, and when you wake up, she’ll be gone.”
“Good.” He pulls me down, still holding the puppy, and drapes an arm over us as he closes his eyes again.
“You’re on the balcony?” Jen calls as she tramps around the back. “What the hell are you doing on the balcony?”
Dalton rises on one arm to glower down at her.
“You’re naked on the balcony?” she says. “In the middle of winter? Is this some kind of weird Northern sex thing?”
Dalton yanks up the blanket over his shoulders. Storm leaps past him and growls at Jen.
“What the hell is the dog doing—” she begins. “No, forget I asked. That’s a weird sex thing you guys can totally keep to yourselves.”
“We are sleeping,” Dalton says. “Where we choose to do it is our own goddamn business.”
“Sleeping on the balcony? In winter? When there’s a warm bed a few feet away? I guess congratulations are in order, Sheriff. You found a girlfriend who’s as weird as you.”
“Get off my fucking—”
“You need to come to the clinic.”
I scramble up, keeping a strategically held blanket in place. “What?”
“I was on watch duty. Something’s … wrong. I’ll meet you there.”
FIFTY-FIVE
We don’t get a chance to ask Jen what happened. Or tell her that if it’s a medical emergency, she should be getting Anders.
We dress fast and take off. Dalton detours to fetch Anders as I race into the clinic. Jen waits in the back room. Roger is where we left him, on the examining table, which comes complete with a removable foam mattress, sheets, side rails and restraints. In Rockton, everything serves a dual purpose.
“What’s the emergency?” I say as I walk in.
Jen points at Roger.
“He seems fine.” I walk over and gently peel back the sheet, careful not to disturb his sleep. “Did his bleeding start again?”
“I’m not a doctor, but I think that’d be a medical miracle.”
I look at her. She jabs a finger at Roger.
I turn back to him. His eyes are closed. His color’s fine, but I lay my hand on his forehead, in case he’s running a fever.
His forehead is cool.
No, his forehead is cold.
My hand flies to the side of his neck and then down to his wrist.
“He … he’s…”
“He’s dead, Jen?” she says.
I glare at her.
“Not a Star Trek fan, I take it,” she says. “Your kind never are.”
“I got the reference. The man is dead, Jennifer, which is really not the time to be cracking jokes. Or to be testing my powers of detection. Goddamn it.”
I grab the stethoscope to listen to his heart.
“Yeah, that’s not going to be beating,” she says. “The whole being-dead thing.”
“Just because he appears to be dead doesn’t absolutely mean he is.”
“So he’s only mostly dead?”
“Get out.”
“I—”
“You sauntered across town to bring us some cryptic message, when maybe—just maybe—fetching Will instead could have saved this man. But no, it’s really more fun to stand by his body and mock me with cinema lines.”