This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(46)

There’s another possibility. One person that I know suspects Brady is innocent. The one who delivered that petition. Also the one who came running to notify us of the fire. Jen.

Too much to think about. It’s a puzzle of configuration, and each piece in it has two sides—guilt or innocence—and the meaning changes depending on which side I place up. If Brady is innocent, then x. If he is a monster, then y. Two ways of looking at everything, leading to two ways of investigating.

Stop. Focus.

Take it apart. Look at the trees, not the forest. That’s what my first detective partner taught me. There are times when, yes, it’s good to step back and see the whole. But there are also times in police work when you must focus on the minutiae. On the trees. On one puzzle piece. Figure out where that fits and that’ll help you find where another goes. Get a few of those done and then step back, or you’ll go crazy with possibilities, each configuration sending the investigation spiraling in a new direction.

Focus.

Start with the fire.

The problem with determining the cause of a fire? The evidence has gone up in smoke. Which is why there are trained experts for this—experts who are not police detectives. But I am every investigator in Rockton, and this is one of the many areas I’ve been researching. I’ve always been a believer in lifelong learning. I took every course my department would send me on. Learned every new technique. Subscribed to every journal. Attended every local conference on my own dime, even as my colleagues rolled their eyes and said, “We hire experts for that, Casey.” True. I did not need to know anything about forensic anthropology, because I wouldn’t ever be the person analyzing buried remains. But I wanted to know. And now I am that person. Jack-of-all-trades, feeling truly master of none.

Arson investigation.

I evaluate the scene. Document it. Process the evidence.

This time, the building has been saved. There’s damage, but it can be repaired. And it doesn’t take much investigating to know it’s arson. The smell of kerosene gives it away, as it did the last time.

It is an arson easily set by anyone with any knowledge of wood and access to kerosene. Which really doesn’t narrow it down in Rockton.

Dalton comes back ahead of the others. A dripping black rug trails behind him with a look that is unconvincingly contrite.

“Got too close to the lake, didn’t you?” I call as I walk toward them.

Dalton only sighs.

“We need to take her there more often,” I say, “so the siren’s call of water is a little more resistible.”

“I’m not sure it ever will be. Been thinking of buying one of those pools.”

“The plastic kiddie ones? She’s a little big for that.” I gingerly pat her wet head, and she slumps happily.

“I mean the ones you set up,” he says. “The bigger pools.”

“Then we’ll have to keep the humans out of it.”

“If they want to swim in dog fur, they can go ahead. Just make a rule: you use it; you clean it.”

He walks over. I take his hand to examine it, but he wraps his fingers around mine, holding tight. His expression is calm, as if he’s just returned from a walk in the woods, but his tight grip tells me the rest.

“Not a trace,” he says. “Storm did well. She found the trail out of town and followed it along the path. They turned off before the spot with the wolf-dog.”

“Turned off or doubled back?”

“That’s the problem. The trail left the path, and Storm followed it awhile, but the undergrowth thickened and hit a whole warren of rabbit holes. She went nuts and lost the trail. I couldn’t get her to focus. So I took her backwards, in hopes she’d pick it up again.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know. She kept finding the same end point. I moved higher up the path in case he rejoined it, and then we were too close to the dead dogs.”

He looks down at her. “She smelled those, and she was upset. Really upset. She got away from me and kept nosing the first cub and . . .”

He exhales. “It wasn’t good. I got her out of there. Which means I can’t answer the question. All I know is they left the path at one point and neither of us could figure out where they’d gone from there.”





26





It’s time to notify the council. Except we can’t. Without Val, we don’t know how.

We have a radio receiver. We understand the basics of how to use it, and Anders knows specifics. But we don’t have a frequency. That’s top secret, need to know only, and no one other than Val, apparently, needed to know.

We move the radio to our house and wait for Phil to call in. That’s all we can do.

We’re up at four. I play double nursemaid, first tending to Dalton’s arm and his hand. The former is healing well; the latter shows no sign of infection. Then, while he cooks breakfast, I go to see the cub.

Storm comes with me. I’m not about to let her into the house—I’m still worried about rabies—but she smells him from outside and seems to think it’s another dead wolf-dog. Her whines escalate to howls. So I lift the cub up to the front window . . . and then she goes nuts because there’s another canine in town and I’m keeping him from her.

I try to calm her by cracking open the front door just enough for her to snuffle him. The poor cub sees this massive black nose and he freaks. I shut the door and Storm starts howling again. The cub stops quaking in mortal terror . . . and begins howling back.