By the time we head to the station, everyone's walking to work, the shops opening. No one lingers at home with the excuse for a snow day. We can't afford that. Eleven isn't even all that late for opening Rockton in the winter season. The town's schedule accommodates the seasons. Longer summer hours and shifts mean shorter ones in winter, when the town goes into a state of semi-hibernation.
Dalton drops off Storm with Petra and then meets me at the bakery, where I'm chatting with the couple who work there. We take our coffee and morning rolls and nearly collide with Val coming in.
"Fresh sweet rolls," I say, lifting mine as I pass, but not slowing, not opening up a moment of conversation as I would with anyone else. A friendly comment and then move on.
Val says, "The council needs to speak to you." Then she turns and leaves.
I hesitate. Devon holds out a cloth-wrapped sweet roll for Val and giving me a wry smile.
"Gotta try, right?" he says.
Both Brian and Dalton snort, almost in unison, as if to say they don't see why we bother. Not with Val. I take the roll and thank Devon as we leave.
*
Val's already inside when we arrive. I knock. She opens the door. I lift the sweet roll, and she stares at it as if suspecting a bomb in pastry shape.
"Late breakfast, early lunch--whatever you call it, it's good. And I wouldn't want to eat mine in front of you."
She gingerly takes the roll. Then she sees Dalton behind me.
"The invitation was for Casey, Sheriff."
"And that wasn't clear, so I came."
"Your presence is not required."
I tense, but Dalton only shrugs and says, "Okay. I'll wait," and starts clearing snow from her front porch.
"I'm certain you have better things to do," Val says. "Unless you're concerned Casey will run off on you."
"Nah, she can't run that fast. I always catch her. Throw her over my shoulder. Haul her back to my c--" He stops, and I know how he'd been going to finish that. Haul her back to my cave. He resumes sweeping off the deck. "My workload for this morning requires my detective. So I'll wait. Eat my roll. Sip my coffee. Glower at the locals. That's ninety percent of policing, you know. The glower."
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."
"I didn't say--"
"You hate that you defended her. You hate even more that she sets a bad example for women who do have crazy exes. But half the women here are running from an abusive partner. You know how many others have turned out to be lying? None."
"I know."
"And not to defend Diana--she's a bitch, always going to be a bitch--but Graham was still abusive. They may have staged the last beating for your benefit, but what about the ones that made her leave him? He beat her. He stalked her. She just kept going back, and I don't understand that, but I've read enough to know it happens."
He taps the pages. "Whatever this means, don't think of it as blaming the victim. You believed her until you had reason to reconsider. Innoce
nt until proven suspicious."
"You're right."
"Usually am." He gets to his feet. "Now you need to talk to Nicole. Sort this shit out."
NINETEEN
Dalton takes his spot with the militia guard on Beth's porch. I go inside. Diana is there, and she pauses, as if expecting to give a report, but I just nod and thank her. She leaves, and I walk into the living room where Nicole stands by the front window, looking out at Dalton.
I clear my throat. She steps back, but only half turns, still watching him.
"Why doesn't he come in?" she asks.
"Do you want him to?"
She smiles. "I guess not." She moves to sit on the futon. "Diana says you two are an item. At first, I thought she was kidding. I figured you and Will ... Well, that makes more sense. You and Will."
I take a seat.
"If he wants to come in...," she says.
"If Eric wants to do anything, he does it. He's fine there."
"Eric. I don't think I even knew his first name. He's just Sheriff Dalton. Or 'yes, sir.'" She smiles again, and it's clear she senses a chill in my greeting, and she's trying to coax a smile, but the silence drags until she's fidgeting.
"I told you that I knew why you came to Rockton," I say. "Eric gave me the official story. Which was not untrue. Your father got mixed up with a cartel and took the family into witness protection after your mother died. He later committed suicide, but that didn't stop the cartel from coming after you and ultimately killing your brother."
"Right..."
Her tone asks where this is leading, but her expression doesn't echo it. Which means I can no longer cling to the hope that the council has outright lied.
"Why don't you tell me where I'm going with this?" I say.
She reaches for her teacup, but her bony hand shakes too much to risk it.
I see that hand. I see her. How thin she is. Clumps of her hair have fallen out. Sores ring her mouth. Vitamin deficiencies have left her skin covered in a full-body rash.
Nicole swallows. Folds her hands. Unfolds them. Then she blurts out, "I gave them my brother."
"Yes."
She looks at me. Looks me right in the eye, and I don't see defiance. I see relief. She has spoken the words, and I have accepted them, and there will be no outrage, no shock, because this is not news to me. I knew what she'd done when I walked in here. It reminds me of the relief I felt when I realized Dalton knew what I'd done to Blaine.
"May I explain?" she asks.
"If you like."
Hands fold. Unfold. Like a disjointed wringing. She finally places them on her legs and grips her knees as if to hold her hands in place.
"We started moving when I was nine. Garrett was twelve. At first, Dad said it'd just be the one move. We'd live in San Diego, which we both loved. That would be our new home. And it was ... for six months. Then we moved. We moved, and we moved, and we moved, and eventually Garrett and I stopped trying to make friends at our new schools. We became each other's best friend. Dad encouraged that. It lessened the chance we'd slip up and say something to a stranger. But when I say we were best friends, it's like ... it's like growing up here. I heard that's what Sheriff Dalton did. That he was born here, has lived here all his life. It's like that, except there's this one other kid, so you have to be friends with that kid because there is no one else."
"You didn't get along with your brother."
"We got along well enough for siblings. I just wouldn't have chosen him as a friend. Of course, I had to pretend otherwise to make my father happy. And Garrett was okay with it. He made sure I didn't have other friends, and soon the alternative was to be alone so I learned to be friends with my brother. When we hit high school, my father decided dating was too dangerous. So no friends, no dates, no social circle at all, and we were growing up, and ... When I said I slept in the closet with a knife, it wasn't only the cartel I was hiding from."
She doesn't sneak a look to see if I'm reacting. She just keeps talking.
"When I was sixteen, I read this book. All the girls at school were, and one offered it to me, and I was so desperate for a connection. It was about a brother and sister who grew up locked in an attic. When they became teenagers ... things happened."
She fists her hands and then forces them open on her knees again. "The other girls thought it was romantic. Forbidden love. I threw up. Every time someone mentioned that book, I started shaking. It wasn't romantic. Wasn't the least bit romantic. But do you know what the worst was? I cared about my brother. Whatever he did to me, I couldn't stop caring. When I finally escaped to college, I'd find myself staring at the phone for hours, wanting to call him, to talk to him. I knew him. That's what it came down to. Whatever he'd done, he was my friend. My only one."
She shifts on the futon, picking up a pillow, then gazing at it as if not sure how it got into her hands before tucking it back down again.
"I eventually asked Garrett not to contact me, and he wouldn't for months. I think he was trying to break free, too. I wasn't the only one cut off, refused friends, not allowed to date. One therapist said I should forgive him. Another said I was wrong to even consider his side of the story. Neither was right. But I don't know what is right." She pauses. "I can give you the therapists' names and any permission needed for them to share their notes. I'll provide whatever you need to prove my story, but the truth is, nothing excuses what I did."
"Tell me about that. What you did."
"Like I said, Garrett would go months without making contact. But that always ended. If I wouldn't take his calls, he'd come around. Just wanting to talk. Coffee, dinner, a drink. Couldn't we do that? Be brother and sister again. I tried. I wanted that, too. But we'd go out, and it'd seem fine ... and then it would start. He missed me. No one was good enough. No one else was me." She looks toward the window. "I know there are a lot of women in Rockton who've dealt with abusive partners. Maybe some men, too. My story won't be any different. It's just the ending that..."
Her hands squeeze. "I moved a lot. I'd take contract jobs so I could move when I had to--not escaping the cartel but escaping my brother. Then came the night I woke up with him in my bed. Holding a knife. I got away and threatened to call the police. But I didn't. The shame of explaining that my own brother..."
She swallows. "That's when the cartel renewed their interest in us. My father had taken money. We got it after he died. Garrett bought himself a fancy sports car, and the cartel caught wind of that, but he didn't have a proper job or a permanent address. I was easier to find. When they showed up, I made a decision."
"You gave them Garrett."
"I had a plan. I thought I was so damned clever. I called Garrett and told him I was giving the cartel his location unless he promised to never see me again. He called my bluff. In the past, I'd threatened to report him and never did, so he figured I wouldn't do this. I proved him wrong. I told the cartel where to find him. Then I called him and said I'd done it and that he had to run. He didn't. They caught up with him and..."
She starts to shake. "My father used to tell us what the cartel would do if they found us. We thought he was just trying to spook us. He wasn't."
"About the money. You had your share. Hidden. And Garrett didn't tell the cartel that."
Her whole body flinches, her eyes closing, face screwing up. "Yes, he never told them. He knew I'd betrayed him, and he didn't do the same to me. I wish he had."
"But the cartel still came after you a year later. They tortured you and then they threw you in a hole."
She goes still.
"That is what happened, right?" I say. "They put you in a pit and held you captive, but you escaped. Yes?"
The muscles in her jaw work, but her lips stay pressed together, as if holding the words back. Then, slowly, she shakes her head.
"That's not what happened?" I prompt.
"No," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "I lied."
"I know."
She shudders as if in relief. "I
know how that looks now. I tell a story about being held captive in a pit back home and then I'm actually held in a hole here. It's too coincidental. So I must be lying again." She looks at me. "I'm not. Tell me what I need to do to prove that."
I say nothing.
She fingers the rash on her arm. "This isn't enough, is it? Not after..."
"After the last time? When you showed obvious signs of torture--all self-inflicted?"
"I was desperate. The detective in charge of my brother's case wouldn't stop digging. He figured out what I'd done. He was coming for me."
"He kept digging for a whole year? So he could get an accessory charge?" I shake my head. "Never."
"He didn't care about charging me. He just wanted leverage against the cartel. He thought I knew more, and if the cartel found out he was trying to use me against them..."
She goes quiet. Then she says, "I didn't care if I went to jail for Garrett. I deserved that. But I would not become my father. I wouldn't live his life. I knew about Rockton from when someone suggested it to my father. He gave me the contact information before he died. So I staged my story about being captured and tortured. Then I called that number."
When I don't reply, she brings up the very question I cannot answer, the one I keep asking myself.
"Why would I fake it again?" she says. "I had a motive the first time. What would it be now?"
"I don't know enough about you to answer that." I glance at the two books she brought back from the cave. "Those are your journals?"
"No, they're just stories."
"Stories?"
"Silly, crazy stories to keep me sane." She walks over and hands them to me. "I almost wish they were journals. That might help. You can still read them. At the very least, maybe they'll help prove I was down there that long."
I take the books.
TWENTY
A flip through the books proves they are just stories. But there's another reason I've taken them, and once they're in hand, I head to the station to examine them further. When Dalton shows up, I hold out the books and say, "What are these?"
"Dunno. Haven't read them."
"I mean the books. The actual physical objects." I put one down and turn the other over in my hands. "I know we sell blank journals at the general store, but these aren't them."