A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(77)

“And the way you’re wording that suggests you’re no longer certain it was Eric.”

She pulls the comforter up again and slides back down to the sofa.

“Walk me through it.”

She does. She went to bed at ten and fell asleep quickly—“I haven’t been sleeping well, and I had sleep aids from when Elizabeth was here.” She dropped into a deep sleep, waking when she sensed someone in the room. She sat up to see a man whom she swears was Dalton, sitting in the chair by her bed, watching her sleep. When she screamed, he left.

“Left?” I say. “You mean he ran out of the room?”

“Ran, walked … I don’t know. I was getting out of bed as fast as I could, and when I was up, he was gone.”

“Could you tell which way he went?”

She can’t. It only takes a quick search for me to confirm there’s no one still here.

“He left,” she says when I return. “I was in a state of shock, and I did not pay attention to which exit he used. I hardly see how it matters.”

“It would make it easier to track footprints,” I say. “We’ll check both doors. All the windows are winter sealed. What about your balcony?”

“That is also sealed. Permanently. I consider the balconies unsafe and have told the council so.”

I get a full description of the man she saw. As soon as she claimed it was Dalton, I thought of the guy who could be mistaken for him: Jacob. I can’t imagine why Jacob would do this, but I have to check. Yet Val is adamant that the man had short hair and a close-cropped beard.

She is adamant it was Dalton.

*

Jen does keep everyone away from the scene, but it’s soon apparent I’m not going to find evidence there. There are few prints, and none match the snowsuit man’s.

It’s been over an hour, and I’m still painstakingly examining every footprint within a ten meter radius of Val’s house. I’m on my second round and I’m crouching, my flashlight beam illuminating a set of prints, as Anders walks over.

“Anything?” he asks.

“Lots of prints, but none near the back door, and I can identify the ones at the front. Mine. Val’s. Kenny’s. Paul’s. That’s it. As for the person Paul thought he saw in the forest, he took me to the spot. There are fresh deer tracks. That’s it.”

“Yeah, we didn’t find anything in the forest, either. So there’s no proof anyone broke into her place. Yet she not only claims someone did, but that it was Eric—even when she knows he has a bulletproof alibi. That’s just weird. If she’s trying to frame him, at least wait until the actual middle of the might, when you’d be asleep.”

“I think it’s more likely a nightmare. She dreamed he was in her room and then woke up screaming and never realized it was only a dream.” I straighten. “I don’t know if that’s plausible.”

“Actually, it’s totally plausible. I had about a year where I couldn’t sleep without pills. If I actually managed drift off, I’d hallucinate something almost exactly like that. I’d see my buddies who got killed by the IED. Or the officer I killed afterward. They’d be standing by my bed.”

I’m rubbing my hands against the cold. He plucks my gloves from my pocket and gives them to me without even pausing his story.

“Thing is,” he continues. “It never felt like waking up from a nightmare. It felt like I hadn’t fallen asleep and they really were in the room. I never believed in ghosts, but that seemed the only explanation. Turns out it’s a type of hallucination that comes right when you’ve fallen asleep, when you’re still conscious enough to think you’re awake. Probably explains a lot of ghost stories.”

“Maybe. She did take sleeping pills. But even if it was a nightmare, why Eric?”

He doesn’t have an answer. But I’m going to get one.





FORTY-FOUR

Val is at her living room window when I come back. I climb the porch, and she’s got the front door open.

“We need to talk—” I begin.

“Yes, we do.” She brings me inside and closes the door. She’s dressed now, as if she’s given up all hope of sleeping. On the table, one of her notebooks is open. I glance at it and see not words but numbers. A page filled with algebraic equations.

“One of Hilbert’s problems,” she says.

“Ah,” I say, as if I have any clue what that means.

She pushes the book aside and sits. “I do not know what happened tonight, Detective. There was a man in my room. I am certain of that.”

Her tone is too firm, telling me she’s actually not certain, not anymore, but Val isn’t the type to back down from an embarrassing mistake.

“I misidentified him as Sheriff Dalton,” she says. “I withdraw that accusation. I understand that you might have reason to believe I intentionally misidentified him, but I assure you that is not the case.”

“I don’t think it was.”

“Thank you.” She folds her hands on her lap. “I would not do that. When I realized my obvious error, I sat here working on an algebraic problem, attempting to set my mind at ease, and I realized I should not set it at ease. That my uneasiness was my subconscious telling me I have been making a grave and unforgivable error. You have treated me fairly, Detective. You clearly do not agree with many of my choices and opinions, but you have been able to rise above that in a way I find admirable.”