City of the Lost (33 page)

“I do. Thanks.”

I avoid Dalton for the rest of the day. I need to process everything I’ve heard and continue investigating and draw conclusions, and I cannot do that with the man himself in front of me, because if he is, I’ll dismiss it all.

Steering clear of him is tougher when I’m back at the station, and every time I duck his notice, I can see his radar honing in on me. As soon as my shift ends, I take off.
Bad headache. See you in the morning.

On the way home, Diana hails me and I don’t brush her off. This business with Dalton has me off balance, feeling uncomfortable in a place I’d embraced only days ago. Diana is my link to my other life, and right now I need that. She’s thrilled to see me and seems to sense I need her, because she insists on me staying for dinner.

I agree, planning to use the opportunity to talk to her about Dalton. She’s another of his non-supporters, and she doesn’t know him as well as the others do, but I want to get her take on him.

Except, as it turns out, she didn’t insist on dinner because she could tell I needed a friend.
She
needs one. She’s having trouble at work, and her boss is threatening to fire her. That’s no light matter here. Job disputes go before a committee to see if the issue can be resolved. If it can’t and the worker is at fault, she’ll end up on shit jobs for the duration of her stay.

According to Diana, this issue is entirely her boss’s fault. Diana slept with the woman’s ex, and her boss claimed that was fine, but obviously she’s jealous, and now the bitch is out to get her. I cringe just listening to Diana, because I know there’s more to it. Her boss wouldn’t risk losing her own job over this.

I remember what Dalton said about Diana inventing issues to get my attention. I’m uncomfortable with that because, in a weird way, it feels vain—thinking our friendship is that important. In my gut, I suspect the answer is far less flattering to me. I have been her rock, the one who is always there for her. The guaranteed friend. The one who has to stick by, because Diana knows what I did to Blaine. She’s never threatened to tell anyone, but …

Oh, hell, I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe Dalton’s low opinion of her is colouring my own. And considering what I’m currently wondering about him, he should be the last person whose opinion I consider.

We never get around to talking about Dalton. I give Diana support and commiseration and then, after dinner, I go home to bed.

I wake to a pebble ricocheting off my cheek, scramble up, and peer down to see Dalton in the moonlight.

“Hey!” I call, my voice tight with anger. “Can’t you knock?”

“You wouldn’t hear me. And I didn’t want to yell up to you and disturb the neighbours.”

“So you threw rocks at me?”

“Pebbles.” He pauses and tilts his head, as if realizing this may not have been the best move. “I need to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“No, tonight. I was going to wait, but I know you’re mad at me, and I’ve had a few beers, and I’ve decided I need answers tonight.”

“And if what I want is sleep, that’s too bad?”

That head-tilt, working this out, his brain fuzzy—a guy not accustomed to more than a beer or two at a sitting.

“I’d really like to talk,” he says. “Just five minutes, and you can come into work an hour late.”

“That doesn’t help when I’m too busy to come in late.”

He pauses, thinking hard, and I know I sound pissy. I’m not pissy. I’m scared. Terrified of going down there and buying whatever he sells, because I look at him in the moonlight, that confusion and worry on his face, his usual swagger gone, as he tries to figure out how to placate me, seeming a little bit lost. I want to tell him it’s okay. Brush aside my fears and go with my gut.

“Five minutes?” he says. “Please? I know you’re angry, and I can’t figure out what I’ve done, and I need you to tell me so I can fix it.”

Damn it, Eric, don’t do this.

“I’m not angry,” I say.

His voice firms. “Don’t pull that shit with me, Casey. You’ve been distant since yesterday, and by this afternoon you could barely stand the sight of me. I need to know what I’ve done wrong.”

I hesitate and then say, “Hold on. I’m coming down.”

He’s still on my back porch. The cross fox is out, prowling, and Dalton’s gaze flicks to it and then back at me, like a schoolboy trying hard not to be distracted when he knows he’s in trouble.

“It’s about the case,” I say.

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“About Abbygail.”

He nods, his expression neutral but his shoulders tightening as if he’s bracing himself.

“The night of her birthday party, you were seen behind the community hall with her.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck,” and he closes his eyes, swaying slightly, and I want to grab him and shake him and say,
No
.

Do not do this, Eric. Do not tell me it’s true. Or if it is true, give me an excuse. Don’t stand there with your eyes closed looking like you’re about to throw up, because that tells a very different story. One I do not want to hear.

“Eric?” I say.

“I—” His eyes open, and in them I see panic. Panic and guilt. Such incredible guilt. “We— It—”

He looks off to the side. At the fox and then away again.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” I say.

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I will. I just … It’s…”

He swallows and looks around for an escape hatch. He spots the back door and heads for it, throwing it open and walking inside, and I want to yell,
Hey! That’s my house!
but I know there’s no subtext in the intrusion. He wants to take this conversation inside, and so he does.

When I walk in, though, I see he wants something very different. He has my tequila bottle in hand, and he’s pulling a mug off the shelf.

“I don’t think you need that,” I say.

“Yeah, I do. I really do.”

He pours the shot and downs it so fast he gasps, grabbing the back of a chair as he doubles over, coughing. When he straightens, his eyes are watering. He closes them for a second and then looks at me and says, “I fucked up, Casey. I fucked up so bad.”

I wave to a seat, but he shakes his head and stays standing, still gripping that chair.

“I was blind and I was stupid and I hurt her,” he says. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

I struggle to stay calm. To
look
calm. “Tell me what happened.”

“We left the party together. She’d had too much to drink, and someone had to walk her home. We were passing behind the hall, and she said she saw an animal dart under it. I followed and … and she kissed me. I didn’t see it coming. Absolutely did not see it coming. She’d pecked my cheek a couple of times, when I did something for her, and maybe that was a sign, but I thought it was just a friendly kiss. This wasn’t. I couldn’t even process what was happening. When I did, I backed away. Fast. I told her she’d had too much to drink. She said she’d had just enough to do what she didn’t dare when she was sober. She said … things. About me. How she felt. I panicked. I just panicked. I said hell no. That wasn’t happening. Ever.”

He swallows and white-knuckles the chair. “I rejected her. Rejected her hard. I didn’t mean to, but like I said, I panicked. She got mad. Said I treated her like a child. Said she felt like the only way she’d get my attention is if she walked into the forest and made me come after her. But she was drunk. Drunk and talking nonsense, and that’s what I thought until…” The chair chatters against the wood floor, and I see his hands are shaking.

“Until she disappeared,” I say. “By walking into the forest.”

An abrupt nod. “That night, I stayed out until dawn patrolling, and then I put extra militia on during the day. But she came by the station and apologized. She said she’d been drunk and made a stupid mistake with the kiss, and she didn’t really mean all those things she said. She apologized for threatening to go into the forest. She was angry with herself for saying I treat her like a child and then acting like one. Two nights later, she walked into the forest, and I wasn’t paying attention anymore, and someone else must have been. Someone followed her and…” His voice breaks. “I fucked up.”

This is the Eric Dalton I know. This is the story that makes sense, and the anguish in his face tells me it’s true. All except one part. That Abbygail went into the forest to spite him. There is nothing in the girl I’ve come to know that suggests she’d do that. Lash out and threaten to in drunken anger and humiliation? Yes. But she was mature enough to regret that the next day and apologize. She wouldn’t do that and then take off.

Why did Abbygail go into the forest the night she disappeared? Only now do I realize that my sleeping brain really did figure it out, in a way. I dreamed that Dalton lured her in. What if someone else did, in his name? A note perhaps. And Abbygail, still smarting from his rejection, couldn’t help but hope he’d reconsidered. That he’d taken time and realized he
did
have deeper feelings for her.

Come to the forest at midnight, Abby. Meet me by the big birch tree. I need to talk to you.

Streetwise Abbygail would only walk into those woods for one person. The guy she hoped would, one day, invite her there.

I don’t tell Dalton what I think. I can’t, because he’ll still take responsibility. Instead, I say, “I don’t think she’d do that.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for the bottle.

“That won’t help,” I say.

“Sure as hell feels like it will.”

He lets me take it from him, though, and slumps into a chair.

“So there’s my drunken confession,” he says. “Proof of exactly how incompetent your boss is.”

“Bullshit, Eric. You’re not incompetent. You just don’t trust me to investigate.”

“What?” He looks over, eyes struggling to focus.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He closes his eyes and slouches. “Fuck.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He reaches up and scratches his cheek, and opens his eyes, as if startled when he doesn’t feel the familiar beard shadow. He’s still shaving. For the trip, and then the memorial service, and now … well, I don’t know why.

He straightens. “I felt guilty and I didn’t want to tell anyone what happened and I thought there was no reason to. Not unless I worried you’d find out and think I—” He looks over at me sharply. “Unless you’d think I killed her.”

“I have to consider it,” I say. “For anyone.”

He goes still. Then he says, “Right. Of course.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I knew you’d have to include me in the suspects, but I didn’t put that together with Abbygail and that night, because, well, I didn’t kill her, so I never made the connection and…”

“You thought you didn’t count.”

He nods and slumps in his chair. “I told myself it didn’t matter. I just didn’t want … I knew how it looked … I figured I blame myself enough that it’s not like I need anyone else to point out that I fucked up.”

“You only fucked up in not telling me, Eric.”

We fade into silence. Finally he looks toward the steps. “I’ve kept you longer than five minutes.”

I could say yes, and he’ll go, but there’s that look in his eyes, the same one he had the night I stitched him up, when he was hoping I’d give him an excuse to avoid going back to that oppressive house with Beth. Now he faces an equally oppressive one in his own empty house. Alone with his thoughts, like me in that cavern. Alone in the darkness.

“I have homemade herbal tea,” I say. “A gift from the greenhouse folks, for solving the tomato case. I haven’t actually worked up the nerve to try it. But if you’re willing to be my guinea pig…”

The faintest tweak of his lips, not nearly a smile. “I am.”

“Then you start the fire and the kettle. I’ll grab a sweater and blankets, and we’ll sit on the deck.”

We’ve been out there for about twenty minutes, silently watching the fox hunt mice.

“You do have to consider me,” he says, breaking the silence. “As a suspect. Anyone could be a killer if you push the right triggers.”

I hug my legs closer and say nothing.

“You don’t believe that,” he says.

“I’ve heard the theory. It’s been used in serial killer defences.”

“Yeah, I know.” He catches my look and says, “I read up on serial killers in case we ever get one smuggled in. But the idea that anyone
could
kill is not an excuse. It’s sure as hell not a defence. It just means you can’t underestimate people. If pushed to the wall, we’re capable of the otherwise unthinkable. It’s the instinct to survive and to protect.”

“And wreak vengeance?” I murmur.

“An instinct for vengeance? Nah. A drive maybe, stronger in some than others.”

“Stronger if that protective instinct is thwarted.”

He peers at me. “What are you thinking?”

“Just … considering.”

Once the clouds clear, it’s a perfect night for the northern lights, the sky lit up with the most amazing show I’ve seen yet. I’m in no rush to sleep—I swear that tea still had caffeine in it. Dalton and I have moved from the deck to my bedroom balcony.

My fox has returned from its prowling, and Dalton’s telling me a Cree story about a fox who outwitted a trickster god. Someone knocks at my front door, the sound echoing in the quiet. I call, “Back here!” and a moment later Anders appears in the yard.

He looks up to where I’m leaning on the balcony railing. He grins, and he’s about to speak when Dalton moves up beside me. Anders’s smile falters, but he finds a softer version of it, with a quiet, “Hey,” and then, “I need to talk to you, Casey. Actually, both of you.”

I look over the railing, measuring the distance to the ground.

“No,” Dalton says.

“You don’t think I can jump it?”

He snorts. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to say that, so you can prove me wrong? Get your ass down the stairs.”

I climb onto the railing.

“Did I just give you an order?” he says.

“I’m off duty.”

I jump. He mutters, “Fuck,” as I drop. I hit the ground. As I straighten, Anders smiles and shakes his head. Then his gaze lifts to my balcony.