This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(103)

He relaxes at that. But he has a point, one I’m not going to admit right now. I would have told him if Mathias confessed, and I’m glad he didn’t, because that would have meant Dalton needed to launch a hunt for a man who deserved his horrible fate.

I didn’t push Mathias because I wanted to protect Dalton. And that is wrong. Not wrong to protect him, but wrong if, in protecting him, I’m trying to preserve his innocence, to shield him.

It is patronizing. It’s what you do to your children and, at one time, it was how you treated your wife, presuming she didn’t have the fortitude to face life’s ugly truths. It is not what you do to someone you consider an equal, however good your intentions.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’ve done that, I apologize.”

“So we can stop protecting Eric’s delicate sensibilities?” he says.

I manage a smile. “We can.”

“Good. Then tell me what you were thinking.”

“Thinking . . . ?”

“Right before I came back here and gave you a hard time. What you’ve been thinking all day . . . whenever we haven’t been trying to stay alive, which has been, admittedly, the bulk of our morning and afternoon.”

“It’s only afternoon?”

He shows me his watch. It isn’t even 3 P.M. I curse, and he chuckles.

“I’m working on a theory,” I say.

“Kinda guessed that.”

“It’s not one I like.”

“Yep.”

“If I’ve been keeping it from you, it isn’t to protect your sensibilities. It’s to protect your opinion of my mental health. And maybe your opinion of me.”

“Because if you tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll wonder what kind of fucked-up person even imagines something like that.”

“Yes.”

“Then let me help. Are you wondering whether Harper killed the settlers?”

I blink over at him.

He continues, “She claimed to have seen Brady there but gave little more than what might be extrapolated from our description of him. She was the one found with blood-soaked clothing, explained away by trying to save her grandmother. Then there’s the shredded food pack. If Brady killed the hunting party for their supplies, he’d have taken much better care of that. Instead, it was abandoned and ripped apart by animals. You just don’t want to admit you’re considering her because you’re afraid it reflects badly on you, thinking a kid could do something that horrific.”

He looks over. “So, am I close?”

“Uh, dead on, actually.”

“Good. Proves I’m making progress with this detective thing. And that maybe my view of people is a little more jaded than you’d like to think.”

“Or just that I’m rubbing off on you.”

He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, Detective. I’m pretty sure it’s not possible to have lived my life up here and be completely unaware of what people are capable of doing to each other. I just don’t like to jump to that for the default. Innocent until proven guilty. Good until proven evil. And there’s a huge spectrum between those two poles. What matters is where you want to sit on that spectrum, and where you try to sit if you have a choice. Like when you need to shoot a hostile who’s about to kill me.”

I say nothing.

He glances at me. “You think I don’t know that’s bugging you, too? I’m the one who screwed up back there. I tried to avoid killing that man, and all I did was sentence him to a slow death. They had no chance of crawling back to their camp. No chance of being rescued. No chance of surviving. The sniper who shot that hostile did him more of a favor than I did in trying to just wound him.”

“You—”

“I’m not looking for redemption, Casey. Just stating facts. I learned my lesson. Doesn’t mean I won’t leave someone alive if they can get to help, but I won’t make that mistake again. Either way, I killed a man today, too.”

“Have you ever . . . ?”

“No,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “No, I haven’t.”



We are back in the clearing where the three settlers were massacred. I have watched Brady’s expression the whole way, waiting for the flicker of recognition, of concern, of worry. Why are we returning him here? Is there something we might find that will prove he’s guilty?

He must be guilty, right?

No. That is the hard truth I’ve come to accept. The likelihood that Harper killed these settlers. That Brady’s claim of innocence is correct. At least in this.

As we approach, he gives no sign that he recognizes the location. We enter the clearing, and he’s looking around. Then he’s checking his watch, as if wondering whether we’re stopping for the night.

“Turn around,” I say.

He does. He’s been quiet. Past the point of denials. Past the point of anger. Just exhausted and resigned to whatever his fate might be.

Earlier, I patted him down for weapons and found only Kenny’s knife, which I have returned. Brady claims he had a stick, too—he’d sharpened it with the knife, as a spear, and he’d been proud of his ingenuity in that. He’d been unable to find anything to eat out here, but at least he had a sharp stick. Or he did until we crawled into that cave and he had to abandon it outside.