This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(10)

“How many?” she says.

I don’t need to ask what she means.

“Five,” I say.

“And you buy that?”

“I’m sure there’s more. There always are.”

“That’s not—”

“You mean do I think he really did it. I don’t give a shit. That’s not my job, and after what we’ve been through, I’m not taking the chance.”

“So the council—which I know you don’t trust—tells you this preppy-assed brat has murdered five people, and you’re just going to believe them?”

Brady’s eyelids flicker, and I’m tempted to grab her by the arm and haul her onto the back porch. But it’s too late, so I say, “And I’ll repeat—I don’t give a shit. If he was a citizen of this town, I’d care. He’s not. And if I did decide he was innocent, you’d be first in line howling that I was putting your life in danger.”

She looks at Brady again. “This just doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, considering I’d never expect you to agree with any choice I made, I’m not too worried.”

Except I am. Jen is my Greek chorus—the voice that will never let me enjoy a moment of hubris. Every choice I make, she questions. So this should not surprise me. Should not concern me. But I expected her to walk in here and tell us we’re underreacting, being too lax. When she instead says the opposite, I begin to worry.





6





I’m lying on our living room floor, fire blazing over my head. Dalton sleeps beside me. Storm whines, and I snap out of my thoughts and give a soft whistle that brings her bounding out of the kitchen. When she was a puppy, we’d barricade her in there whenever Dalton and I needed private time. Now we only need to kiss, and she’ll give a jowl-quivering sigh and lumber off to the kitchen and wait for that whistle.

When she bounds in, I signal for her to take the exuberance down a few notches. She creeps over and sniffs Dalton’s head, making sure he’s asleep. I give her a pat, and she settles in on my other side, pushing as far onto the bearskin rug as she can manage.

As I rub behind her ears, I pick up on her anxiety. She knows something is bothering us, our stress vibrating through the air even now, as Dalton sleeps.

I don’t think he has taken an easy breath since Brady arrived. So I may have intentionally worn him out tonight. But I’m wide awake, tangled in my thoughts.

I give Storm one last pat, head into the kitchen, and pull tequila from the cupboard. One shot downed. Then a second. I’m standing there, clutching the counter edge, when I hear a gasp from the living room.

“Casey?”

I jog in, and Dalton’s scrambling up, eyes open but unseeing.

“I’m right here,” I say, but he still doesn’t seem to notice. He’s on his feet now, looking from side to side.

“Casey?” Louder now. I hurry beside him and put my hand on his arm. “I’m right here.”

He turns, exhales hard. His arms go around me, and he’s only half awake, as I lower us back to the floor. His head hits the rug, and he pulls me in, clutched like a security blanket, his heart rate slowing as he drops back into sleep.

An hour passes.

I’m still entwined with him, my head on his chest as I listen to the beat of his heart. That usually lulls me back to sleep after my nightmares. Tonight it doesn’t. It can’t.

I would get up and read a book, but if I leave, he’ll wake, and he needs his sleep. So I lie there, listening to the dog’s snores. Then Dalton’s breathing hitches. His heart thumps, and he bolts up, gasping again.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he says.

I don’t answer. I just wait.

He says it again. Not “I fucked up,” but “I made a mistake.” His voice is soft, a little boyish, a little breathless. He’s awake but with one toe in that twilight place.

I adjust so I’m sitting with him as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“With Brady,” he says. “We need to do something else.”

“Like what?”

He runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

Which is exactly what I’ve been lying here thinking. He says, “This isn’t the way to handle it, but I don’t know what is,” and that articulates my thoughts as perfectly as if he’s pried them from my brain.

“Fuck,” he says, and I have to smile, hearing him come back to himself. He looks at me. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Pretty much.”

Silence. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “I keep wanting to ask what we could do differently, but if you had an idea, you’d give it.”

“I would.”

Dalton’s eyes shut. A sliver of moonlight bisects his face, half light, half dark. It’s a lie. There’s no darkness there.

Light doesn’t mean carefree or easy or saintly, though. It’s not even light so much as . . .

If the absence of light is dark, what is the absence of dark? To say “light” isn’t quite correct. Even “good” doesn’t work.

“If I knew for certain he was guilty . . .” He lets the rest trail off.

If I knew for certain he was guilty, I could kill him. To protect the town. To protect you. To eliminate any chance that he hurts someone here.