This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(5)

Then I came to Rockton. I arrived in a place I did not want to be . . . and I woke up. Snapped awake after twelve years in what had been just another type of coma. I came here, and I found purpose and a home.

Yet my life in Rockton is an illusion. I know that. Our amazing little town exists inside a snow globe, and all the council has to do is give it a shake and that illusion of control shatters.

We do have options. We can refuse to accept Brady. And the council will send someone to escort Dalton to Dawson City. Ship him back “down south”—our term for any place that isn’t here. Any place that Dalton doesn’t belong.

You’re on your own now, Sheriff. It might be hard to go anywhere when you don’t legally exist. Might be hard to get a job when you’ve never spent a day in school. Might be hard to do anything when you don’t have more than the allowance we paid. Oh, and don’t expect to take your girlfriend with you—Detective Butler can’t leave for another year. But go on. Enjoy your new life.

I’m sure Dalton’s adoptive parents would help him. I could give him money—it’s not like I’ve ever touched my seven-figure inheritance. The problem is that Dalton cannot imagine life anywhere else. Rockton is his purpose. His home.

We have a backup plan. If he’s ever exiled, I will leave, also, whether the council allows it or not. So will Anders. Others, too, loyal to Dalton and to what this town represents. We’ll build a new Rockton, a true refuge.

Is that laughable idealism? Maybe, which is why we don’t just go ahead and do it. For now, we work within the system. And under these particular circumstances, walking out is not an option.

These particular circumstances.

Oliver Brady.

Twenty-seven years old. American. Harvard educated. His father runs a huge tech firm. I don’t recognize the family name, but I’d presume “Brady” is as fake as “Butler” is for me. Also, his father is actually his stepfather.

What does that stepfather hope to accomplish with this scheme? I don’t know. Maybe saving his wife from the pain of an incarcerated son. Or maybe saving his corporation from the scandal of a murderous one.

“Murderous” doesn’t begin to describe Oliver Brady. I told Val there were five victims, but in cases like this, five is just how many bodies they’ve found.

During that interview with Phil, I made him give me details.

The police believe Oliver Brady took his first victim at the age of twenty. I’m sure there were other victims, animals at least. There are patterns for this sort of thing, and Oliver Brady did not burst from a chrysalis at twenty, a fully formed psychopath.

Five victims over seven years. No connection between them or to himself. Just people he could grab and take to his hiding spots, where he spent weeks torturing them.

I’m not sure “torture” is the right word. That implies your tormenter wants something, and the only thing Brady wanted was whatever pleasure he derived from it. The detectives speculated that he never delivered what we might call a killing blow. He simply kept torturing his victims until they died.

This is the man the council wants us to guard for half a year. A man who likes to play games. A man who likes to inflict pain. A man who likes to cause death. A man who will not cool his heels for six months in a secure cabin. The first chance Brady gets, he’ll show us how much he doesn’t want to be here.



After we leave Val’s, Dalton takes off to update Anders. I go in search of another person that needs to be told: the local brothel owner.

Yes, Isabel Radcliffe is more than the local brothel owner. I just like to call her that, a not-so-subtle dig at my least favorite of her positions. She owns the Roc, one of two bars in town. The Roc doubles as a brothel, and she and I are still debating that. I say it sets up dangerous and insulting expectations of the majority of women who don’t moonlight in her establishment. She says it allows women to explore and control their sexuality and provides safe access to sex in a town that’s three-quarters male. I’d be more inclined to consider her argument if “brothel owner” were a volunteer position. I mentioned that once. She nearly laughed herself into a hernia.

I find Isabel upstairs at the Roc, walking out of one of the three bedrooms that serve as the brothel—for safety, paid sex must take place on the premises. She’s wearing a kerchief over her silver-streaked dark hair, and it may be the first time I’ve seen her in jeans. Her only “makeup” is a smudge of dirt on one cheek. We can’t find room for makeup and hair dye on supply runs, which is a relief, actually, when that becomes the standard. With Isabel, it doesn’t matter. She still looks like she should be lounging in a cocktail dress, smoking a cigarette in a holder, with hot young guys fetching her drinks.

She’s carrying an armload of wood, and I look into the room she’s exiting and see a bed in pieces.

“Whoa,” I say. “I hope you charged extra for that.”

“I would skin a client alive if he did that.” She hefts the wood. “Well, no, if he could do that, I’d want a demonstration. I’m repurposing the room, so I deconstructed the bed.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes, Casey. By myself. With that thing . . . what do you call it? Knocks in nails and pulls them out again? Ah, yes, a hammer. Kenny was busy, and I didn’t want to disturb him when he was getting ready to leave.”