This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(4)

“We could certainly invest in better radios,” Phil says. “Though I’m not sure that would be a wise use of the money.”

The problem with the radio reception is interference. The same thing that keeps us safe and isolated also keeps us isolated from one another when we’re in the forest.

Phil continues, “I’m sure if you asked the residents, there are things they’d like to use the money for.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Booze. And more booze. Oh, and a hot tub. That was their request last year. A fucking hot tub.”

“We could actually do that, Sheriff,” Phil says. “It wouldn’t be a jacuzzi-style with jets, but a deep communal tub with fire-heated water and—”

Dalton cuts him off with expletives. Many expletives.

“There are always things we could use,” I say. “And if we went to the residents and asked, they might take this offer. That’s because they trust us to protect them from someone like Oliver Brady. But we are not equipped for this, Phil. We have one jail cell. It’s intended as a temporary punishment. It’s not even big enough for a bed. We can’t confine Brady to it for six days, let alone six months. If you wanted to send him here, you should have warned us and provided supplies to construct a proper containment facility.”

“And maybe asked us if we wanted this deal,” Dalton says. “But you didn’t because you know what we’d say. Which doesn’t excuse not giving us any warning. You dropped off a serial killer and a bag of fucking coffee.”

“Tell us what you need to construct a proper containment facility, and we will provide it,” Phil says. “Until then, your holding cell will be adequate. Remember, the goal here is to convince Mr. Brady to accept his father’s offer. Show him the alternative. Let him experience discomfort.”

“You want us to waterboard him, too?” Dalton asks.

“If you like. I know you’re being facetious, Sheriff, but the residents of Rockton are not subject to any governmental constraints or human rights obligations. Which you have used to your advantage before.”

“Yeah, by making people sleep in a cell without a bed. By sentencing them to chopping duty without a trial. Not actual torture, and if you think that’s what I’m here for—”

“You’re not,” I say. “The council knows that. What the council may not understand, Phil, is exactly what they’re asking. Even with a proper facility, we won’t be equipped for this. We don’t have prison guards. You saw what happened this winter.”

“But Nicole is fine now. She’s staying by choice. That alone is a tribute to you both and everyone else in Rockton. You can handle this.”

“They shouldn’t have to.”

That isn’t me or Dalton speaking. It’s Val, who has been silently listening.

“Eric and Casey shouldn’t have to deal with this threat,” she continues. “The people of Rockton shouldn’t have to live under it. I don’t know what this man has done . . .”

She looks at me warily, as if not sure she wants me filling in that blank.

“He’s a thrill killer,” I say. “He murders because he enjoys it. Tortures and kills. Five victims in Georgia. Two men. Two women. And one fourteen-year-old boy.”

Val closes her eyes.

“Oliver Brady is a killer motivated by nothing more than sadism,” I continue. “An unrelentingly opportunistic psychopath.”

“We can’t do this, Phil,” Val says. “Please. We cannot subject the residents of Rockton to that.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, “but you’re going to have to.”





3





For the first three decades of my life, I didn’t understand the concept of home. I had one growing up, and outwardly, it was perfect. My parents were very successful physicians, and my sister and I lived a life of privilege. We just weren’t a close-knit family. That may be an understatement. Before I left for Rockton, I told my sister that it might be a few years before she heard from me again, she acted as if I’d interrupted an important meeting to say I’d be out shopping for the day.

I don’t know if my early life would have doomed me to an equally cold and comfortless adult one. Maybe I would have married and had children and formed a family there. But my future didn’t proceed in a direction that allowed me to find that out.

When I was nineteen, my boyfriend and I were waylaid in an alley by thugs who took exception to him selling drugs on their turf. I fought back enough to allow Blaine to grab a weapon so we could escape. Instead, he ran. I was beaten and left for dead, and he never even bothered calling 911.

I spent months in the hospital recuperating, post-coma. Then I went to confront Blaine. Shot him. Killed him. I didn’t intend to, but if you take a gun to a fight, you need to be prepared for that conclusion, and at nineteen, I was not.

I spent the next twelve years waiting for the knock on the door. The one that would lead me down a path ending in a prison cell. I deserved that cell. I never pretended otherwise. But nor did I turn myself in.

Instead, I punished myself with a lifetime of self-imposed isolation, during which I threw myself into my job as a homicide detective, hoping to make amends that way. Create a home, though? A family? No. I gave up any hope of that life when I pulled the trigger.