This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(11)

That’s what he means, and maybe it should prove that he does have darkness. But this is sacrifice. It’s a man saying he would take another life and suffer the guilt of that rather than let anyone else be hurt.

Dalton’s lack of darkness, though, means he can never take that step as long as there’s a chance that Brady is innocent.

We both know innocence is a possibility, but I wasn’t lying when I told Jen it didn’t matter. We cannot prove Brady’s innocence or guilt. We cannot even investigate his crimes. He didn’t kill here. We can’t go there. Which reduces our options for dealing with Oliver Brady to two.

Keep him.

Kill him.

We can devise the most secure prison, staffed with our most reliable and loyal guards, while knowing we cannot truly guarantee safety.

Or I can conclude that we can’t care whether he’s innocent or guilty, but I must treat him like a potential patient zero and—without equipment to test for the virus—decide he must die.

“No,” Dalton says, and I haven’t spoken a word, but his eyes bore into mine with a look I know well.

Drilling into my thoughts. In the beginning, that look meant he was trying to figure me out. Now he doesn’t need to. He knows.

“If you make that choice, Casey, you need to tell me first.”

Which means I can’t make it. I’d never allow Dalton to be complicit in Brady’s death. Nor can I do it behind his back, for the purely selfish reason that it would be a betrayal our relationship would not survive. I’m not sure I could survive it either. I’ve had my second chance at a good life. I won’t get a third.

He continues, “If it comes to that, it has to be both of us deciding.” He settles back onto the rug. “I think we can handle him. Build a cabin like the icehouse. Thick walls. No windows. One exit. Only you, me, or Will carries the key. That door never opens without one of us there. Brady gets a daily walk. We’ll do it when no one else is in the forest. At least one of us will accompany him, along with two militia. That’s the only time he comes out. We’ll gag him if we have to, so he doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t pull his innocence shit.” He looks at me. “Does that work?”

It’s the course of action we’ve already come up with. He’s just repeating it, like worry beads, running plans through his mind, trying to refine it and seeing no way to do so.

“It works,” I say.

And I pray I’m right.



Day three of hosting Oliver Brady in our holding cell. We’re constructing his lodgings as fast as we can. The new building will serve as a food storage locker once Brady is gone. We have to think of that—construction like this cannot go to waste. That also keeps us looking toward the time when he will be gone.

I remember reading old stories of barn-raising parties, a building erected in a day. It’s a lovely thought, but this is being built to hold something more dangerous than hay. We must have our best people on it. Which would be so much more heartening if we had actual architects or even former construction workers. We have Kenny . . . who builds beautiful furniture.

Dalton is the project foreman. Since he was old enough to swing a hammer, he’s built homes meant to withstand Yukon winters. Solid. Sturdy. Airtight. He got up at four this morning to start work, after returning home at midnight.

It’s ten in the morning now, and I’m waiting for Mathias so we can get Brady’s side of the story. Part of me would rather not; I fear it will ignite doubt I cannot afford. But that gag can’t stay on forever, and we must know what others will hear once it’s off.

Brady is pretending to sleep. That’s what he does for most of the day. He must figure the law of averages says that at some point we’ll forget he’s awake and say something useful.

When the door opens, I say, “I hope you brought plenty of anesthetic,” in French. I’m kidding, while testing whether Brady knows French. He’s American, but he’s also a private-school kid.

Brady doesn’t react. Nor do I get a rejoinder from Mathias . . . because the man walking through the door is Brian, who runs the bakery. He has a Tupperware box in hand and slows, saying, “Did you just ask if I brought a nest egg?”

I snort a laugh at that and shake my head.

“Yes, I failed French,” Brian says as he comes in. “You must be expecting Mathias.”

“I am.”

He lifts the box. “I brought cookies, since I know you’re stuck here with . . .” His gaze slides to Brady, and I tense.

The cookies are an excuse. With almost anyone else, I would have foreseen that, but Brian has been to our house for poker. We’ve been to his for dinner. I talk to him almost every morning as I pick up my snack. He’s my best source of town gossip, but it’s the harmless variety, local news rather than rumor and innuendo. He has never once asked me for information on a case.

But now he’s here to see Brady. To assess the situation. And when his gaze falls on the prisoner, his lips tighten in disapproval.

“A gag?” he says. “Is that really necessary?”

I want to snap that if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t do it.

“Yes,” I say. “For now, it is. We’ve replaced the original with something softer, and Will’s watching for chafing. Given what this man is accused of, I’m okay with him suffering a bit of temporary discomfort. The gag will come off soon.”