"Don't give a shit about that. You think I haven't heard it?" He puts one hand on the wall and leans against it. "I know what I am, Casey. Hearing it from someone like that sure as hell doesn't bother me. She's a vindictive, jealous brat, and the fact that you've actually been friends with her for half your life proves you had a martyr complex even before that Saratori business."
"Wow. Thanks. Really. Because what I need right now--"
"What you need right now is to stop feeling responsible for Diana. Maybe I'm exaggerating about the martyr thing, but if you tell me that you didn't initially befriend her because you felt sorry for her? I'm calling bullshit."
I say nothing.
"You felt sorry for her, and she's been clinging to you ever since. You give and she takes, and then she has the gall to resent you for every imagined--"
"Can we not talk about this?"
"You know I'm right."
"I also know you like to tell me what's wrong with me, and I know I don't much like to hear it."
"Seemed you were okay when she was doing it."
I zip my jacket. "I'm sorry she ruined our evening. It was a good one. Thank you for that, and I'll see you tomorrow."
He follows me out and down the road. When I'm sure that's not just because he happens to be heading the same way, I say without turning, "If you're escorting me home, walk with me, please. Otherwise I feel like I'm being stalked."
He catches up with a few strides. We don't talk. We reach my porch, and I unlock my door and turn and say, "Thanks."
Then I pause. He can rub me the wrong way, and I sure as hell don't appreciate being psychoanalyzed, but otherwise it's been a good day for us. I don't want to end it being rude, so I say, "You're welcome to come in for a coffee, but after what Diana said ..."
"Diana's a--" He cuts himself off, though it looks as painful as if he actually bit his tongue. "I don't give a shit what anyone thinks, Butler, in case that isn't perfectly clear by now. Whatever a guy down south might expect of being asked into a woman's place, I'm not from down south. I figure you're offering me coffee because I walked you home and it's cold out and you'd feel rude turning me away at the door. To which I'd say that you worry too fucking much about being nice, especially to those who aren't particularly nice in return, but apparently you don't like me pointing out your faults."
"Shocking really, because most people love that."
I find a smile for him, and he nods, giving me a ghost of one in return, and then says, "Well, the polite thing for me to do now would be to say no, I don't want a coffee. But I do, so you're going to have to make me one."
Dalton starts the fire, and I put the full kettle on the hook. We wait in silence for it to boil. I'm making the French-press coffee when someone raps at the door. Dalton grunts, "Got it." A moment later, I hear Anders say, "Oh, hey," and then, "Everything okay?"
"Yep."
"I got Diana home fine, but I wanted to talk to Casey--"
"About Diana?"
"Well, yes. About what she said and--"
"She doesn't want to talk about Diana."
"Right. Okay. I get that. Does she, um ..." Anders's voice lowers. "Does she not want to talk to me?"
"She never said that."
"Did she, uh, say anything? About what Diana said? Me and her, and ..."
Anders trails off and Dalton seems to wait for more, then says, "Nope. Nothing. Talk to her in the morning."
I could go out and say no, that's fine, and invite Anders in. But I really don't want to discuss Diana. So I pretend not to hear them and take mugs from the cupboard.
"Right," Anders says after a moment. "Okay. So ... see you tomorrow, I guess."
Dalton says goodbye and shuts the door.
Ten
We're in my living room, and damn, I'm content. Even bordering on happy. I shouldn't be. Since I arrived in Rockton, I've felt like I'm on one of those playground rides that spins as fast as the other kids can run, and at first it's exhilarating, but then you just want to get the hell off, and no one will let you, and when it finally stops, you're left lurching around, trying not to puke in the sandbox. Then, just as the ground seemed to be levelling today, I was sucker-punched by my best friend--the whole damn reason I stepped on the ride in the first place.
Maybe it's just a question of balance and juxtaposition. Compared with that merry-go-round hell, being curled up on the sofa in my own house, in front of a roaring fire, with a hot coffee in hand and a warm blanket pulled over me, I almost want to cry from relief. The world has stopped spinning, if only for a few moments.
Dalton is still here. I can't see him--I'm staring at the fire and he's in the chair to my left, out of sight. But I can hear his measured breathing, and it only adds to the calm, like a steady heartbeat. Maybe that helps, too, that I'm not alone. That someone is here who expects, at least for the moment, nothing from me. Not even conversation.
After a while, Dalton shifts, his jeans scratching against the fabric of the chair. We've hit the limit of silence, and something must be said before it turns awkward.
I look over at him first, and he's gazing into the fire, not noticing that I've turned, so I watch him, the light flickering over his face. So deep in thought that I resist speaking until he stretches his legs, shifting again, the silence chafing.
"Can I ask you something about the case?" I say. "Or are you off duty?"
"I'm never off duty. Not a whole lot else to talk about. Weather maybe? It's getting cold. It'll keep getting colder. Then it'll snow."
"Good to know," I say with a smile.
"I could ask what you think of the Jays' chances at the Super Bowl."
I laugh softly. "The Jays play baseball. The Super Bowl is football--and it's American."
"Huh. There goes that idea. Better stick to work. Go ahead."
"If I asked you for your background notes on Irene Prosser--why she was here--can I get them?"
"No notes." He taps his head. "It's all up here. The council tells me people's stories as part of the vetting process. That's a bylaw. Doesn't mean I'm allowed to write them down. That would be a breach of confidentiality. Also, they presume I'm not bright enough to actually remember. Irene was here for the same reason Diana and almost half the women are."
"Fleeing an abusive situation."
"The women are mostly running from bad choices in men. The men are mostly running from bad choices in life."
He tells me Irene's story. Like Diana, she was escaping an abusive ex whose stalking turned to violence and death threats. From I love you and can't live without you to If I can't have you, no one will. Chilling in its predictability.
"Do you have any idea the sort of injuries she suffered?" I ask.
"She had what your friend didn't--a long medical record of obvious abuse, complete with X-rays of broken bones."
"Not every kind of abuse results in broken bones, sheriff, and I don't appreciate the insinuation."
"I'm not saying your friend wasn't abused by her ex. Nor am I saying you padded her application. I'm just ..." He trails off and then straightens. "Back to Irene."
"Thank you."
"There were broken bones. Maybe a half-dozen hospital reports. I can't recall details, but it was a clearly documented case of physical abuse."
There are a few moments of silence after that, and it is awkward now. Finally, he rises and takes his empty mug into the kitchen. I follow a moment later to see him, not preparing to leave, but pouring another half cup. He takes it to the window and looks out.
I've had enough coffee, but I join him in gazing into the night, and the silence softens until he says, "You've got a fox."
I look toward the carving Brent gave me, where it sits on my table.
"No," he says. "A real one."
He motions me to the window and reaches back to extinguish the lantern. Moonlight streams in. He points, and it takes me a minute, but slowly I make out the shape of a canine the size of a spaniel, half emerged from a fallen log. Then it
steps out.
"That'd be the den," he says. "It's a red fox."
I squint against the glass. "Doesn't look very red to me."
"It's a cross fox. Which is a variant of a red. The colouring is dark red and you'll still see the white-tipped tail, but it has a black line down its back and one over its shoulders."
"Hence the name."
He nods. "They're rarer than the traditional colouring, but not as rare as the silver variant. We've got one of those in the area."
"If you spot it on a ride, can you point it out?"
"Course."
"Thanks. I'd like to see that. Or any wildlife, really. Are there books? When I popped in the library, it seemed mostly fiction."
"I have books."
"Any chance of borrowing one?"
He nods. It's a laconic nod, but the glitter in his eyes says he's pleased.
"Do I need to worry about the fox being there?" I ask, mostly to keep the conversation going.
"Nah. Only a rabid one is a threat. I'll tell you how to spot rabid animals, but they're extremely rare, and we have the antidote. As for the fox, just keep your garbage covered. That's a general rule, though. Raccoons and bears are the real troublemakers there. Occasionally, foxes will be bolder than other animals. It might let you get closer than you expect. Or it might sit and watch you, but that's only a problem if it approaches you or tries to attack."
"Because that suggests rabies."
"Yep. And don't feed it. It's a wild animal. Let it stay wild. You'll only do more harm than good otherwise, as much as you might think you're helping."
He's staring into the forest again, his expression tight. After a moment, he shakes it off and clears his throat. "Anyway, the fox shouldn't be a problem, so you can leave it be. The only thing I'll warn you about is that if it's a vixen--a female--and you're here in mating season, her call will probably scare the crap out of you. Every year I get some panicked new resident pounding on my door in the middle of the night, shouting about the woman being murdered in the forest."
"I'll consider myself warned."
He steps back from the window. Then he stops and peers up.
"Are those your blankets on the balcony?" he says. "Don't tell me you're still sleeping outside."
"Okay, I won't tell you."
He gives me a look.
I shrug. "It's a little weird, I know. Maybe it's the fresh air or the quiet, but I slept so well that first night that I kept doing it."
"Just don't ask me to drag your bed out there."
"It's too big. I tried taking out the mattress, but that won't fit through the door, either."
He looks to see if I'm kidding, realizes I'm not, and shakes his head.
"It's safe, though, right?" I say. "We ruled out flying monkeys?"
"Yes, but we have another primate who can climb out there."
"Oh." I step from the window. "Maybe it's not such a good idea, then."
"Nah, it's safe. The hostiles don't come this close, and even if they did, no one can see you up there. Just ... I know you don't like sleeping with your gun, but I'm going to ask you to have it there. Put it out of reach nearby."
"I will."
He sets his empty mug in the sink and heads for the door. I follow to lock it behind him. In the front hall, he stops and says, "What we talked about. With Irene and ... well, pretty much everything related to this case. That's between us."
"I know."
"I mean it. I'm not saying I trust you more than other people. I don't." He looks over at me. "I'm sure it's rude to say that outright, but you know it's the truth. Trust takes a helluva long time to build out here, and ours is situational."
"Because I'm the detective on the case and you're not going to solve it by withholding information I need. I understand that."
"Good. And of the people I do trust in this town, Beth's near the top of the list. But we share case details with her on a need-to-know basis. For her own good and her own safety. That goes for Will, too."
"Will?"
"Yeah. He's the best damn deputy this town has ever had, and on that short list of people I trust, he's at the top. But Will likes to talk, as you may have noticed. He goes out and has a few drinks and sometimes it's one too many, and then he does shit he regrets in the morning."
"I got that impression."
"With Diana? Yeah. Will likes to cut loose. Dealing with baggage and all that. He can be a little careless, and that's why I don't tell him anything that would get him in trouble. Or jeopardize an investigation."
"One of the things they warn you about at the academy is that you can't talk about cases to a friend, a lover, a partner, anyone. For me, that comes naturally."
"Good. Keep it that way."
The evening ends so well. I'm relaxed and centred and settled. Then I remember what Diana did, and I'm in bed, half asleep, but all I can think about is her. In a surreal way, it's as if I'm back downstairs with Dalton, and I'm talking it through and I'm seeing his reaction and ...
And I realize I'm angry. I'm so damned angry. I don't want to cut Diana any slack. I don't want to say she was drunk and didn't mean what she said. Of course she meant it. Alcohol doesn't transform us into a different person--it just lowers inhibitions. In vino veritas. Pour enough alcohol down someone's throat and they'll start sharing opinions and beliefs they never would otherwise.
Diana's tirade was nasty and downright cruel. She may have aimed some of that invective at Anders and Dalton, but that was collateral damage. The venom was for me. Insulting them was just a fast route to humiliating me.
I think of all the other times she's lashed out. When she ran off to join the cool girls in high school, I tried to warn her, and she accused me of being jealous, made it very clear she'd only befriended me because I was the one who stepped up. Afterward, she begged and cried and swore she hadn't meant any of it, and I'd let her back because I felt bad for her. Then, when I warned her about Graham, she said I was a jealous, selfish bitch who--post-attack--had lost most of my friends so I clung to her. When she ran back to me again, I let her, because I owed her for keeping the secret about Blaine. And from there? From there it became like a long-running marriage. We'd fight. She'd needle and insult me, but by that point I just didn't give a shit. Like my ex said, there was nothing anyone could say about me that was worse than what I said about myself.
And now this. I came here for her, and she was acting like I was a puppy who'd followed her home. No, worse--like I was her babysitter, spoiling her fun and stealing her lovers.
Well, fuck that. Really. Fuck that.
I wasn't ready to cut her loose. I didn't have the headspace for that--I had murders to solve. But those murders would keep me properly busy, and so I would step back. Skip the ugly confrontation and hope that this was what Diana needed--what we both needed. A truly fresh start for both of us.
Eleven
I start my day with more interviews. Dalton joins me again. He's calm today, his edges muffled until an interviewee gives me grief, and then all he needs to do is rock forward, his jaw setting, and she falls in line so fast it's like having a Rottweiler at my side, dozing until he smells a threat and then rising with a growl and a lip curl that douses that threat in a heartbeat. Very handy.
My first interview is with the last person to see Powys alive. It's a woman, perhaps not surprisingly, given that he disappeared in the middle of the night. From her bed, apparently. She's convinced he was kidnapped on his way to the bathroom. According to Dalton, there was absolutely no evidence of a break-in, but she's not going to admit Powys screwed her and then snuck off in the night. Which means pretty much everything about her story is suspect. Including the part, I'm guessing, where they had sex four times that evening. Which was, as Dalton snorted, "irrelevant," though the fact she kept repeating it suggested this was highly relevant to her.
The second interview is Irene's co-worker, who'd been the last to see her alive. Irene had worked in the greenhouses, having a backgroun
d in horticulture. Her co-worker is also a gardener, and I remember her from Dalton's little brown book. She is in Rockton hiding from charges of poisoning her abusive husband and burying him in the garden. In researching her online, Dalton had uncovered a story about a very wealthy woman whose abusive husband had been found fertilizing her prize roses. She'd disappeared while out on bail. The article included her photo, which apparently matched the sixty-year-old-woman now telling me what a sweet girl Irene had been. As for why she'd needed to buy her way into Rockton, that had less to do with her killing an abusive husband and more to do with the body found beside his--that of their twenty-three-year-old maid, pregnant with his child.
All that means I have a second witness I can't trust. Which I'm beginning to suspect is par for the course in Rockton. Even many who haven't bought their way in have something to hide, like me. A town full of liars. Cases here will depend more on evidence than interviews.
Speaking of evidence, I want to talk to Beth, but she has clinic hours until noon. Dalton says we'll go by after lunch.
He walks me to my last interview of the morning and then leaves. He has rounds to make, which is mostly about just being seen, reminding people he's there, to make them feel safer or to warn them ... or a little of both.
This particular interview is all mine because he trusts the interviewee to co-operate, given that he's a former cop. I meet Mick in the Roc. It's closed for another hour, but he's there, cleaning up and waiting for me. There's no sign of Isabel, which is a relief.
When I walk in, Mick's polishing the bar, and that stops me in my tracks, my mind slipping back to another time, another bartender. I indulge the stab of grief and regret for two seconds before walking over and taking a seat at the bar.
Mick sets the rag aside and puts a steaming mug of coffee beside me, along with sugar and goat's milk from under the counter. He doesn't say a word, as if this is no grand gesture but just common hospitality.
I pour in the milk.
"So," he says. "Abbygail."
"I hear you two were involved."
He nods and begins folding the rag, meticulously.
"I'd ask if you want a lawyer present," I say. "I know cops realize that's wise for any interview. But I'm not sure where we'd find one."
He gives a short laugh at that. "Oh, there are plenty here. I think it's the most common former occupation." His lips quirk. "Surprisingly."