A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(33)

“Have to. Floorboards and all. That’s the first excuse people give when they’re found with contraband—must have been the guy who lived here before me.”

He reached for the book I’m holding. I hand it to him. He flips through it, frowning.

“I’ve seen…” He doesn’t finish, just keeps turning pages, his fingers running over them. “I had books to draw in, when I was a kid.”

“You drew?”

He shrugs. “Sketches. Wildlife and whatever.” His fingers move across the writing, as if picking up touch memory from the old, ink-dented paper. “My mother used to hang them in the cabin, and this one time, when we had a fire, she tried going back in, and it turned out all she wanted was my stupid—”

He inhales sharply and slaps the book shut. “My father used to get me books. Old ones. I don’t know where they came from, but they smelled like that. Looked like that. Ledgers or journals, from miners and trappers, like you said.”

I want to backtrack. Hear the rest of his story. Gain insight into a part of his life he slaps as firmly shut as that book.

Tell me about your sketches.

Tell me about your mother.

Tell me anything.

I get as far as “Do you ever—” and he cuts me off with “I don’t know where my parents got the books, but it wasn’t from Rockton.” He checks his watch. “We’re losing daylight fast. I’ve got a few things to do. I’ll meet you in a half hour, and we’ll get Storm for a walk.”

*

Dalton and I are walking the puppy. It’s twilight, and we’re in the forest, taking her farther than she’s gone before. I have something on my mind. He knows, and that’s why we’re here.

He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. The guy who usually demands hard answers to uncomfortable questions now walks quietly at my side, murmuring to Storm when she wanders, voice low so he doesn’t interrupt my thoughts. The guy who drags people through town by the scruff of their neck now has his glove off, my hand wrapped in his, thumb rubbing every so often, a small gesture of comfort. The guy who doesn’t have time for your shit—and no problem telling you so, loudly and profanely—now crouches patiently by the side of the path, holding back undergrowth so Storm can sniff a fox hole. I watch him hunkered there, pointing at spots for the puppy to sample, and I suspect I’ll never figure him out entirely, and I don’t care. Dalton is like Rockton itself, so many aspects, not all of them easy or comfortable, but the sum total adding up to something unique and remarkable and unforgettable.

When he rises, I tell him Nicole’s story. All of it.

“It bothers me,” I say when I’m done. “I don’t know why. It’s not like I have any sense that she’s lying…”

“That’s not it.”

Dalton stops, his hand tightening on mine. He scans the twilit forest before glancing at Storm. She’s picked up his unease, and she’s sampling the wind but seems to smell nothing out of the ordinary.

When we resume walking, he says, “It’s her situation. She murdered a guy who did something to her, something that deserved punishment, but not that severe a punishment. And she got away with it.”

We walk a few more steps, before I say, “She didn’t actually kill—”

“Splitting hairs. Yours was bad judgment. Taking a gun to a confrontation? Never a good idea. Nicole made her choice deliberately.”

“But she warned her brother. She didn’t plan for him to die.”

“You confronted Blaine with a gun to spook him, prove you were serious. A threat that went as bad as it can go. In your case and Nicole’s. That’s what makes you uncomfortable. You hear her story, and you think it’s forgivable. Yet if her situation parallels your own, what does that mean for you?”

“I need to separate the cases.”

“Or you could—crazy idea—confront and reconcile the problem? Admit that on a culpability scale for murder, killing Blaine only rates about five.”

“I need to separate the cases.”

He sighs. “Fine, so moving on to the other part that’s bothering you…”

He’s gone still again. He doesn’t stop moving, but he’s scanning the darkening forest. When I squint into the trees, I sense nothing. Neither does Storm, who’s trotting along ahead of us.

Dalton shakes it off and says, “The problem is the fact that accusing her of voluntarily living in that hole is preposterous. Especially without a motive. So you’re wondering why the council gave it to you.”

“You don’t actually need a detective, do you?”

“Sure, I do, because my answer is ‘because they’re assholes.’ I’m gonna guess you need more.”

“I do. It’s like they expect we’ll be so freaked out by this that we’ll jump on any other explanation, however flimsy.”

“Or they’re jumping on it.”

“Why? Is it just because terrible crimes are terribly inconvenient? Like trying to cover up a murder in a fancy hotel?”

“Maybe.”

“It bugs me.”

“I know.”

I’m about to say more when he tenses again, his eyes narrowing. This time, I ask, “What do you see?”