This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(6)

“You mean he was going to charge you double for a last-minute job, and you decided to do it yourself.”

“Same thing. Make yourself useful and grab some wood.”

I do, and as I follow her down the stairs, I say, “You said you’re repurposing the room?”

“It will now be for private parties.”

“Kinky.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Not that kind. However, if you’re interested in that kind, I can certainly arrange them. I’m sure we’d find no shortage of buyers. Though I also suspect our good sheriff would snatch all the invitations up.”

“Nah, he’d just glower at anyone who tried to buy one. That’d make them change their minds. Fast.”

“True.”

“And, just for the record, I’m not interested in private sex parties.”

She stacks the wood onto a pile. “As I said, it’s not that kind of room. We very rarely have three clients requiring rooms simultaneously, which makes it an inefficient use of space. Instead, this one will host private parties. Drink and food provided, along with a dedicated server . . . who will offer nothing more than drink and food. You may feel perfectly comfortable holding your poker games up here.”

“With people banging in the next room for ambience?”

“I’m installing soundproofing. Now, what was a plane doing landing on our strip?”

“You saw it?”

“I see everything.”

Her network of paid informants makes sure of that. Isabel not only runs the Roc, but controls the town’s alcohol, which makes her—after Dalton—the most powerful person in Rockton. She’s also the longest resident after him. She’s passed her five years but has made an arrangement with the council to stay on. I suspect that “arrangement” involves blackmailing them with information gathered by her network.

In a small northern town, I’m not sure which is more valuable: booze or secrets. Sex comes next. Isabel owns all three, while holding no official position in local government. Kind of like the Monopoly player who buys only Park Place and Boardwalk and then sits back to enjoy the profits while others scrabble to control the remainder of the board.

I hand Isabel the letter that came with Brady. As she reads it, her lips tighten almost imperceptibly. Then she folds it and runs a perfect fingernail along the crease.

“This is one time when I really wish you were given to practical jokes,” she says.

“Sorry.”

She shakes the letter. “This is inappropriate.”

I choke on a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“No, it is the best way of putting it. Springing this on Eric is inappropriate. It is also inappropriate to ask the town to accept it.”

“They’re paying us. A million dollars for Rockton.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Did you actually say money doesn’t matter?”

She fixes me with a look and heads back upstairs for more wood.

“We don’t need a million dollars,” she says as I follow. “People didn’t come here for luxury accommodations. They came for safety. This trades one for the other. Unacceptable.”

“That’s what Eric said. So they promised him twenty percent.”

“Imbeciles. Did he tell them where to stick it?”

“Of course. Doesn’t change anything, though. We are stuck with Mr. Brady for six months.”

“And you want my advice on how to deal with it?”

“If you have advice, I’ll listen, but I’m here for your expertise on Brady himself. Use your shrink skills and tell me what we’re dealing with.”

She picks up the headboard and motions for me to grab the other end. “I was a counseling psychologist. I had zero experience with homicidal maniacs. Fortunately, you have someone in town who is an expert.”

“I know. But he’s going to be a pain in the ass about it.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’re a whole different kind of pain in the ass.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. He is your expert with Oliver Brady. You need me for another sort of advice: how and what to tell the general population. That is going to be the truly tricky part.”





4





I pace behind the butcher shop.

“The answer is no.” Mathias’s voice floats out the back door. “Whatever you are considering asking, the answer is no.”

“Good. Thank you,” I say. Or Bien. Merci. Mathias’s English is perfect, but he prefers French, and I use it to humor him. Or placate him. Or charm him. Depends on the day, really.

“Wait,” he calls after me. “That was too easy.”

“You’re imagining things,” I call back as I keep walking.

A moment later, he’s shed his butcher’s apron and caught up. “This is a trick, isn’t it? You wish my help. You know I will grumble. So you pace about, pretending you have not yet decided to ask me, and then you leave quickly when I refuse. My interest piqued, I will follow you of my own accord.”

“You got me. So, now, knowing you’ve been tricked, you should go back to your shop and not give me the satisfaction of victory.”