This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(79)

The door opens, and Isabel calls, “Closed!”

Dalton walks in. “Got a situation, Casey. I need you.”

I’m getting to my feet when Diana says, “Can’t you handle it alone, Sheriff? Casey deserves a rest.”

“So does he,” I say. “And he hasn’t been sitting here drinking whiskey.”

She opens her mouth, but a murmur from Isabel stops her. A quiet reminder, I’m sure, that harping on Dalton does nothing to bring Diana back into my good graces.

When we get outside, I say, “We were attempting to eulogize Val. It wasn’t going well.”

He slows. “Shit, I’m sorry. If you want to go back—”

“The eulogy part was over. It was booze and cards henceforth. Somehow I don’t think Val would have approved.”

He takes my hand as we walk. I might joke, but he knows that wake wasn’t easy. Any reminder of Val is a reminder of how she died. But Isabel is right—Val deserved a few quiet moments of our time.

“So what’s up?” I say.

“Kenny’s missing.”

“What?”

“He was out searching with a party. I wanted him at the lumber shed to deal with the reconstruction issues. When it was definitely dark”—he points at the night sky—“I went to see why he wasn’t back yet.”

“And?”

“His group returned fifteen minutes earlier. He had to use the bathroom. Someone stood outside waiting, not wanting to rush him.”

“Let me guess—he’s not in the bathroom.”

“Yep.”





44





There are three levels of occupancy here in Rockton. At the top is having your own house. At the bottom is apartment living—bachelor-style apartments. In the middle, you get the full level of a house, which still only nets you about six hundred square feet. Yes, we aren’t exactly living in mansions here. We can’t afford the energy costs or the footprint.

Kenny has a ground floor. Which means it was very easy to sneak out the window while his guard was watching at the front.

And his guard? Jen.

“Which is why you should have put a guy in charge of him,” she says. “Someone who can stand in the bathroom while he takes a shit.”

“Yeah, not even the guys are going to do that,” Dalton says. “But next time someone’s in there that long? Knock. Ask if he needs medical care.”

“He took a book. I knew it was going to be a while.”

“A book from the library?” I say.

“Everyone does it.”

“Which is why I don’t read books from the library,” Dalton says. He stands in the bathroom and looks at the window. “Fuck.”

“Eloquent as always, Sheriff,” Jen says.

“Yeah, well I’m saving time on a lengthy response.” He strides for the door. “Time better spent catching his ass before he rendezvouses with Oliver Brady and gets his fool throat cut.”



I join the search for a while, with Storm. The problem? Kenny knows what Storm can and cannot do. Which means he runs straight to the nearest stream.

We lead Storm up one side of it for about a kilometer, as far as we figure he could walk in the icy water. Then we take her down the other side and another kilometer in the opposite direction. Either Kenny managed to steal waterproof boots and three pairs of wool socks or Storm misses his exit spot.

Dalton takes her on a wider circle in the area while I return to town. There are a few things I want to check, and with both Dalton and Storm hunting, I really am a third wheel.

I want to look for a note. Even with what seems like an obvious betrayal, I still can’t write Kenny off just yet. I find it much easier to believe he was duped by Brady’s protests of innocence rather than jumping at a huge bribe to help a serial killer. If so . . .

If so, I have an alternate theory for his disappearance. One that paints Kenny in a better light. One that fits better with the man I know.

I find the note in the station. Paul said Kenny came in here earlier, to return a flashlight that he claimed belonged to me.

I find the note in the drawer, along with a spare flashlight.

The note is addressed to me. And when I read it, I discover I was wrong. Very, very wrong.



Dalton comes home at three in the morning. From the kitchen, I hear the door open, the solid boom-boom of his boots stepping inside and then the skitter and scrape of Storm’s nails as she zips past him. After that double boom, his footsteps go silent. He’s looking for me in the living room. When he doesn’t see me, there’s a sigh, and his boots come off, thumping to the floor.

Steps move into the living room. Not the solid boom of his initial ones. Not even his usual purposeful stride. These are dragging and whispery, socks skimming the hardwood. Then the thud of him collapsing onto the sofa.

He doesn’t hear me come out of the kitchen, and I catch that first unguarded glimpse of him, forearms on his thighs, shoulders bowed, gaze empty as he stares at nothing. The floorboard creaks with my next step, and he looks over and his face lights in a smile.

I know he thought I’d gone to bed, and while he’d never complain about that, yes, he was disappointed. Now he sees me and smiles. Then he gets a whiff of the dinner I’m carrying, and his gaze goes to it.