Beth talks a bit more about her findings. Mick's clothing had definitely been soaked in kerosene, as our noses told us. There are no signs of restraint. He'd almost certainly been dead from his wounds before he was placed by that woodpile. His body and clothing did show signs he'd been dragged. Probably not far, but with the fire, we'd have no way to confirm that.
"In other words, there's nothing to suggest that a woman Diana's size couldn't have committed this crime," I say.
"No. Also ..." She looks toward Dalton, who's still talking to Anders.
"Go on," I say.
"There are cuts on Diana's fingers."
"Defensive wounds?"
"No. They're on the side of her palms."
She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't have to.
"Consistent with her pushing in a knife and having her hand slip and nick the blade."
"Yes. I'm sorry, Casey. I wish I could give you something to suggest she was framed."
"But you can't."
She shakes her head.
Eight
Dalton is walking me home when someone calls, "Detective Butler!" and I tense, recognizing that voice.
Dalton turns, saying, "No, Isabel."
"I'd like to speak to--"
"Casey has not slept. She needs--"
"It's okay," I say. I turn to face Isabel. "I'm sorry for your loss."
I mean it even more when I get a good look at her. She's not wearing makeup and she's still dressed from yesterday, her clothing dishevelled and stained as if she's spilled coffee or a drink. I remember how Mick talked about her. Not a guy looking for a sugar mama. A guy in love. In Isabel's face, I see proof that the love went both ways.
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I can assure you we're putting everything we can into finding his killer--"
"You already have."
My head jerks up.
"It's Diana, isn't it? You found her with him, in that fire."
"Which does not mean--"
"Of course it does. She lured him there. Mick said you were asking about her turning tricks. I wanted to speak to you about that directly and ..." A flash of grief. "I didn't get to it nearly as quickly as I should have. It was no misunderstanding, Casey. She was acting out, in so many ways, and that was just one of them."
"You think that's why she'd lure Mick?" I ask.
"I know if she said she wanted to talk to him about it, he'd have met with her. Is that a motive for murder? I barely dare hazard a guess. Something's come loose in that girl's head. I suspect it was always only a little wobbly before, because otherwise you wouldn't have been friends with her. But since Diana's arrived here, it's broken, and you know it. That's why you backed off."
I open my mouth to answer, but Isabel continues. "Diana lured Mick there and killed him."
"They had sex," Dalton says.
"Bullshit. Mick would never--"
"There were signs he'd had sex shortly before his death."
"With me, Eric. In the backroom about an hour before he left."
"While the Roc was still open?"
"Is that a crime?"
Dalton crosses his arms. "You left the bar unattended and had sex in the backroom with your boyfriend, who wasn't feeling well."
"He was feeling fine then."
"Then I'd suggest you get your ass to the doc's to confirm that for our report."
"Confirm it how? He wore a condom."
"Produce the condom." Dalton nudges me. "We'll talk to you later, Isabel."
"It's about Diana." She steps between us to face me. "Information I've been debating telling you, because you already don't like me very much, and this won't help. But it's something you need to know."
"It can wait," Dalton says. "Casey's so tired she can barely stay upright."
"No, I ..." I want to say I'll handle it, but I can't. "I'm sorry. Eric's right. Whatever it is, right now, I'd probably only hear half of it."
"Then I'll talk to you, Eric," she says.
He exhales. "I'm just as tired, and I want to get Casey home before we both fall over."
"Will!" Isabel calls.
I see Anders down the road. He looks as if he'd been heading our way but was stopped by a citizen. He says a few quick words to the woman and then hurries to us.
"Will, could you please walk Casey home?" Isabel says. "She's exhausted, and I need to speak to Eric."
Dalton hesitates and then says, "Yeah, okay, walk her home. Make sure she gets in bed."
"Alone," Isabel calls as we start to go.
Anders flips her the finger.
"You get some rest, too, Will," Dalton says.
"I'm fine. You guys need--"
"We all need sleep. I'm going home after this, and I'm not coming into the station before two. If either of you sticks your head out before then, people are going to demand a statement. You'll need to wake me up early to give it. I'll be pissed."
Anders smiles. "All right. See you at two, then."
Once we're back at my place, Anders comes in, and I get halfway across my living room and it's like my battery cuts out. I just stop. Then I start to shake. Anders is there in a blink, his arms going around me, and I try to brush him off, to say I'm fine, but he says, "Bullshit," and hugs me tighter, until I give up and let myself fall against him.
I don't cry. I want to, for the first time since those months in the hospital. But tears don't come. Instead, I just shake harder, as much as I try to stop. After a couple of minutes, Anders leans down and whispers, "It's about Diana, right?"
I nod, and I don't elaborate, and he just keeps hugging me, and as the shaking stops, I become keenly aware of him, the smell of him and the feel of him, that rock-solid presence and the beat of his heart, and I think of more than a hug.
I think of complete distraction, of sex with a great guy who'd give it and understand it was just the moment and expect nothing more. All I need to do is give a sign. Touch his hip. Press against him. Some small signal that he can choose to act on or not, and if he chooses no, then the moment passes without awkwardness.
I don't make that move. I know why I don't, and I choose not to pursue that reason, not to analyze it, because if I think about it too much, I'll decide it's a damned stupid excuse and, really, if that's the reason I'm holding back, then it's also the reason I should push forward, because that's not happening, that shouldn't happen, and this is the better choice. No, that's not true. This is the safer choice. This is the one that won't break my heart.
Anders kisses the top of my head. Then my forehead. Just light, fraternal kisses, but that's his move, his sign. All I have to do is lift my face from his chest, tilt it up, and let him put those kisses on my lips. I don't, and he gives my forehead one last kiss. Then I step away.
"I should get to bed," I say. "Let you go."
"Yes," he says. "You should get to bed. As for letting me go?" He takes my face between his hands. "I'm always here for you, Casey. If you need me, I'm here. If you don't? I'll still be here."
He kisses my forehead again, and I know he's telling me, whether I want more or not, he'll still be there. Which is, I think, the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me, and I wish ... But there's no sense wishing, because it's only going to make me feel guilty and stupid--too stupid to take the damned good thing that's right in front of me, stupid enough to hold out for something I'm not going to get. That's the way it is, though, and one thing I won't be stupid enough to do? Tell myself I'm wrong and hurt Anders when it turns out I'm not.
"I'm going to crash here," he says, and waves to the couch. "Okay?"
I nod and smile. "Okay," I say, then I hug him and tell him thanks, a deep and genuine thanks, before I head upstairs.
I'm too exhausted to think about Diana. That does not, however, mean that I have a long and restful slumber. I set my alarm for one-thirty, but I'm up an hour sooner, waking from a nightmare.
I'm sure Diana would not commit cold-blooded murder. She wouldn't even do what I had--kill someone in the heat of
the moment. Could a combination of booze and rydex have sent her into a murderous rage? I want to say no--that someone framed her. But I find that nearly as impossible to believe as Beth does. Which leaves only one conclusion. That something has snapped in Diana, and I saw it snap, and I backed off, like Isabel said. Which makes whatever happened partly my fault.
In that distracted state of mind, I make my way downstairs. I'm walking through the living room when I see a figure sitting on my couch, and I jump back fast before I realize it's Anders. He's sitting on my sofa and staring at me ... dressed only in my panties.
I know it's not my almost-naked body that has his attention. It's the scars.
I mumble an apology and hightail it back up the stairs. Anders follows, rapping on my door and saying, "Shit, I'm sorry, Casey, that was--"
"--one hundred percent my fault," I say as I yank on some clothes. "I forgot you were down there."
"Still, I wasn't exactly being a gentleman and looking away, which is why I'm apologizing."
"There are a lot of scars."
It takes him a moment to reply. "No, I never noticed--I mean, you were naked, so I was--"
I crack open the door, hiding behind it as I smile for him. "It's okay. I know what I look like."
"You're beautiful. Hell, I have scars. Yours surprised me, sure, but it doesn't make you any less--"
"And we'll stop there," I say, my smile turning genuine. "I appreciate the flattery, but let's not make this any more awkward."
"It's not flattery. I ..." He takes a deep breath. "And that's not making this any less awkward. Can I fix you a late breakfast?"
I nod and withdraw.
I come down as Anders is finishing the coffee.
"It happened in college," I say, standing in the doorway. "My boyfriend was dealing drugs on someone else's turf. We got jumped by a few guys. My boyfriend took off. I spent six weeks in the hospital. I went to confront him afterward, and made the mistake of bringing a gun."
It's the first time I've said that to anyone outside therapy, and my heart is thumping so hard I can barely breathe.
"Shitty boyfriend," he says as he brings me a coffee.
I sputter a laugh. "Yes, but not really the point of that confession."
He shrugs. "Close enough."
"You don't seem surprised. You knew?"
He takes eggs from the counter. "No, but if someone asked me why you were here, I'd have said you did something to someone who damned well deserved it. Which doesn't make it any easier." He looks at the eggs in his hand. "Scrambled?"
"Sure."
"Good, 'cause that's all I can make." He takes out a pan, puts it on the blazing wood stove. "Mine was in the military. I killed someone who didn't deserve to die. At all. I screwed up. Big time."
"I've heard it happens over there."
He nods and turns away as he cracks the eggs.
"Which doesn't make it any easier," I say.
"Nope, it doesn't." He tosses the shells into the compost box. "Does being here make it easier for you?"
I nod. "It does. Like I said, it happened in college, so it's old news. But ..."
"It never goes away."
"It still hasn't, and maybe this is just me hiding and pretending things are better--"
"Don't analyze. Eric does enough of that for both of us."
I laugh and sip my coffee.
"Which helps," Anders says. "Though I'd never admit it to him. He can be a pain in the ass, telling you exactly what your problem is, but some of us need that more than a therapist's couch. Someone who won't let us hide. When I came here ..." He shakes his head. "I was a fucking mess. I didn't want to be here. Same as you--yeah, Diana told me you came to Rockton for her. I came because the one person who thought I was worth saving--my sister--put my ass on the plane, and I'd already let her down too much to ever do it again. Then I got here and ..."
He sits across the table from me. "I know it's a cliche, but Eric saved me. When my term's up, I only hope that I've made myself useful enough that I can stay and keep repaying that debt. And, yeah, that's partly because I don't want to go back. I'm happy here. But I do owe him. I owe him big, and anything he wants from me? It's his."
He fingers his mug, and it seems as if he expects a response, so I say, "All Eric wants from you is exactly what he's getting: a damned fine deputy."
One corner of his mouth lifts. "Thanks. What I mean, though, is ... I get the feeling ... but I don't want to step aside if there's no reason to, but if ..."
I wait for him to go on, but he only fusses with his mug. Then his head lifts. "Shit! The eggs."
He's hurrying back to the stove when a rap comes at the door. It's a familiar knock. One hard rap, pause, then a second, almost reluctant one, as if the caller would really rather just knock once for efficiency but then it would be mistaken for a bang and he'd have to start over again.
I call, "Come in," and I swear I hear the knob turning before I even say it. Dalton's heavy boot steps cross the living room, and he sticks his head into the kitchen.
"Knew you'd be up already. Thought I--" He sees Anders and stops.
"I crashed on the couch," Anders says. "Now I'm making breakfast."
"Doing a shitty job of it, smells like. How the hell do you burn scrambled eggs?"
"It's a special talent."
Dalton walks to the stove. "No, it's having the damned fire too hot. Get out of the way." He looks at me. "You want scrambled eggs?"
"That's fine. I--"
"Do you want scrambled eggs?"
"Over easy would be better."
He looks at Anders. "Sunny side up?"
"Yes, please."
"You know what would help, Will? If the one kind of eggs you can make is the kind you actually like to eat. Get out the bacon or sausage or whatever Casey has in the icebox, and then pour me a coffee while I make breakfast."
"Yes, boss."
Nine
We eat. We head to town. We make a public statement. Or I do. Once again, Dalton stands beside me, arms crossed, so when the time comes for questions, no one opens their mouth. This time, though, Dalton says, "If you've got any, you have sixty seconds to ask. After that, if you come by the station or stop us in the street, I'll charge you with obstruction of justice."
"And what's the penalty for that?" someone asks.
"I haven't decided. Forty-five seconds left."
He does let it go a little longer than that--allowing two questions. One is asking whether there will be water restrictions until our stock is replenished.
"No restrictions," Dalton says. "But the price of water and wood just doubled. However, we'll be looking for people to join a logging expedition and folks to haul water from the springs. Double pay for that."
The next question is from Kenny, who wants to know if there will be a moratorium on carpentry. He's not really asking so much as getting Dalton to announce it, so no one comes to him wanting work done. He'll be busy rebuilding the lumber shed with others.
Val shows up then. Not to the actual statement--God forbid, because someone might ask her a question--but immediately after, to tell Dalton that the council wants to speak to him.
"Come on," he says to me.
"The council only wants--" Val begins.
"Too bad. Butler is in charge of the case, and presuming that's what they want to talk about, this will be a hell of a lot faster than passing on questions through me. Now run ahead and get them on the line. We're a little busy here."
The council is one faceless guy on a static-stuffed radio frequency. The others are apparently listening, probably by teleconference, but we only hear from that one guy--Phil.
"We've received a case update from Valerie," Phil says after she introduces us, cutting off my hello.
"And there's nothing more we can add," Dalton says. "Detective Butler just issued a statement. There were no questions other than housekeeping shit. Now, the longer we're on this call, the longer we're not investigating the crime."
/>
"Crimes," Phil says, emphasizing the plural. "You seem to have a lot of them, Eric."
"Yeah, we do. Weird, isn't it?" Dalton muses. "The few people here who've committed crimes had justification. Otherwise, we wouldn't let them in, right?" He continues before Phil can answer. "Mick's death was probably unconnected to the other murders--"
"Which is worse, isn't it? Two killers working in Rockton suggests an outbreak."
Dalton snorts. "Yeah. A contagious homicide rash. What happened last night was about those damned drugs you aren't interested in helping me clean up."
"Because, relatively speaking, rydex is no more dangerous than alcohol. More so, given that we average an alcohol-related death every eighteen months. It's the price you pay for isolation."
I clear my throat. "If you have questions on last night's events--or on the other case--"
"No, Detective Butler, we do not. We trust you have the other matter in hand. We also agree with Sheriff Dalton that last night was the very unfortunate result of recreational drug use. We've decided on a verdict."
"Verdict?" I say. "I've barely begun investigating."
"And if there is any sign that our decision is wrong, you may continue your investigation. For now, we declare Diana Berry guilty--"
"Whoa! Wait! You can't--"
"We can. We have. Our sentence is simple and fair, and if we are mistaken in our verdict, there is little harm done. Your friend will simply be removed from the community. Returned home."
"Returned ..." I struggle to my feet, feeling like the floor has turned to rubber under them. "No, you can't ... Her ex ... If she leaves, then I have to go to look after her." Which I failed to do here.
Dalton rubs his mouth and then says, "There's no reason ..."
I wait two seconds for him to go on. Then I finish it for him. "No reason for me to stay."
His eyes widen. "What? No. I ..." He gets to his feet. "Detective Butler and I have to discuss this. We'll step out--"
"No need," Phil says. "What Eric is trying to say is that there's no reason for you to accompany her home because she's not in any danger. Diana Berry did not come here because her ex-husband was stalking and beating her. She's here because she conspired with him to steal a million dollars from her employers."
I stare at the radio. Just stare.