This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(8)

“Twice. I got ‘I didn’t do it’ and cursing about his stepfather.” I turn to Brady. “Get up. We’re taking you to town.”



A press conference in Rockton is a strange thing. First, we don’t have a press, which may make the entire endeavor seem rather pointless. Instead, it only makes it all the more critical. Without official media, the only way to disseminate information is word of mouth, and as anyone who’s ever played telephone can imagine, that’s a dangerous game when you’re dealing with a matter of public safety.

In a Rockton press conference, I am the physical manifestation of the printed page. I climb onto the front porch of the police station, give the news, and take questions. Dalton stands off to the side, arms crossed, his expression warning that those questions better not be stupid.

Brady is safely ensconced in the station cell. We brought him in through the back door. So no one has seen him yet as I stand on that porch and tell them that the council has asked us to take custody of a dangerous criminal. I get that much out, and then I wait, knowing exactly what will come.

“How dangerous?” someone asks.

The first time I spoke to a community group, my sergeant told me not to give details. They don’t need to know, he said brusquely, and I bristled at the implication that a frightened community didn’t deserve to know the exact nature of the predator in their midst. Which wasn’t what he meant at all. It wasn’t patronizing; it was protective.

I must know what Brady has done to fully understand what I am dealing with. That’s the nightmare I must welcome into my head so that I can do my job. No one else needs that.

Even Dalton, who’d insisted on listening earlier, now shifts behind me, porch boards creaking, that subtle movement screaming his discomfort at the memory. Whatever Dalton has seen, whatever tough-guy face he puts on, I know his overwhelming thought on Brady’s crimes.

I don’t understand.

I cannot fathom how one person could do that to another.

I don’t either, but I must stretch my imagination there as much as possible.

For the town, I provide the roundabout blather of the bureaucrat, words that seem like an on-point answer.

He’s dangerous.

Murderously dangerous.

While I understand that you may wish more, you must also understand that he comes to Rockton as a prisoner, to await a decision on his fate, which means we are not at liberty to discuss his exact crimes, for reasons of security.

Words, words, more words, spun out until I see nods of understanding. Or, at least, of acceptance.

I continue talking, imparting data now. He will be here six months. He will be confined for the duration. He is being held in the station until we can construct a special building to house him.

“How long will that take?” someone asks.

“We’re assessing the feasibility of constructing a new versus retrofitting an existing one,” I say. “We’re aware that the holding cell is far from ideal. That’s why we want to move quickly on an alternative.”

“Can’t we just free up a house? Guard the exits?”

“No,” says a voice from the crowd. Everyone follows it to Nicole. When they see who has spoken, a murmur runs through the assembled. They remember what happened to her.

“We understand that whatever this man has done, he is due his basic human rights,” I say.

I feel that creak of the boards, Dalton recalling what Brady did and not convinced he concurs. I would agree. As far as I’m concerned, Brady can get comfortable in that cell. But that isn’t an option, because the people of Rockton would not allow it without hearing the extent of his crimes.

I already see the crowd pulse in discomfort. I could tell them what he has done. Do not let yourselves be concerned on his behalf.

Just tell them.

Take the outrage and the anger and the impotence that Dalton feels. Multiply it by two hundred. An entire town, furious that the council has done this, furious that we have “allowed” it.

If we tell them his crimes, any civil rights we’ve accorded Oliver Brady will be held against us. Mob mentality will rise. Against him. Against us.

I love my town, but I do not trust them in this. So I remain silent.





5





I’m in the station. It’s a small building, with one main room and a door leading to the cell area. I’ve got that door open.

Brady is pretending to sleep. When I turn my back, moving about the station, I know he peers out to assess. I’m here alone, and again, he doesn’t know what to make of that. But he is pleased. He gives that away in the curve of his lips. He’s growing confident that this will be easier than he dared hope, that the alpha dog foolishly leaves the weakest in the pack alone with him time and again.

Kenny comes in while I’m settling behind the desk.

“No, Eric is not here,” I say as he looks about.

He glances at Brady, slouched on the floor, knees up, eyes closed. Kenny lowers his voice and moves closer to me. “I know you can look after yourself, Casey, but maybe . . . You know.”

I arch my brows.

“Look, I don’t want to know what this guy did. If you say he’s violent, that’s enough for me. But whatever it is, I’m sure it involves women. Maybe leaving you here isn’t . . .”

“Because I’m a woman?”