This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(83)

Dalton does not want to take Wallace into the forest. He argues. Vehemently. Profanely. Loudly. He is overruled by Phil. Both Wallace and Phil are coming along, and there’s nothing we can do about that.

We fill thermoses with coffee and grab breakfast-to-go at the bakery. I think Dalton’s hoping that our speedy departure will change Wallace’s mind. It doesn’t. Within the hour, we’re deep in the forest, with the two men and Storm.

Dalton takes the lead with the dog. I hang back with Phil and Wallace. That’s deliberate, allowing our trackers to work. I chat with Wallace. Phil tries several times to pull Wallace’s attention his way, with topics I can’t possibly address—American election issues, a stock-market roller coaster—but Wallace only answers politely and then steers conversation back to include me.

Phil surrenders with a sniff and once-over of me, as if suggesting Wallace is only paying attention to me because I’m female. I get no such vibe from the older man, though. Wallace is just politely keeping conversation on things I can discuss, like the forest itself. When Phil falls back, I warn him to please stay close, but he dawdles just enough that I need to keep shoulder-checking to be sure he’s with us.

When Wallace realizes both Dalton and Phil are almost out of earshot, he lowers his voice and says, “I would like to speak to you about something.” He pauses. “Or perhaps not so much a discussion as a confession.”

“Hmm?”

“About Oliver. I know how this looks from your viewpoint. You are a detective. You’re supposed to catch people like my stepson and put them in prison. That is what should have happened to Oliver. And yet it did not. Why? Because we’re rich. We can afford alternatives, and the alternative I chose resulted in the death of five more people.”

“Yes.”

He gives a strained chuckle. “Not going to sugarcoat that for me, are you?”

“I grew up with money. Not your tax bracket, but my parents had very successful careers, and we enjoyed all the privileges that come with that. So I won’t rage about the inherent evil of the upper class. But nor do I agree with anyone using their money and their privilege to keep a serial killer out of prison.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes. Then he says, “I told myself I was doing the right thing. The responsible thing. I’m embarrassed to say that now, but it’s true. I thought that by incarcerating Oliver, I was saving my country that expense. Doing my civic duty by removing him from the population while not charging the taxpayer for our mistakes.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh, I know. The truth is . . .” He exhales. “I love my wife. I wanted to protect her—not only from a trial, but from ever knowing what Oliver did. As soon as the police started questioning, I hired an investigator. I found evidence and confronted Oliver. When I threatened to turn my evidence over to the police, he confessed. So I whisked him away and told my wife that he was innocent, but we couldn’t trust the justice system. I said they’d convict him on the grounds of being a spoiled, rich white boy. But my wife wasn’t the only reason I did that. I wanted to avoid the business ramifications of having a serial killer for a stepson. It was a sound business investment. Whatever this costs, it is not nearly the blow my finances would suffer if Oliver was arrested.”

Storm barks, and I tense. It’s just a quick bark, though, with a response from Dalton. I can see them through the trees around the next curve, and while I can’t make out what Dalton’s saying, there’s no alarm in his voice.

Wallace has gone quiet, and I think he’s waiting for me to respond. This is, as he said, a confession. A safe one, too—it’s not as if I can tell the newspapers what he’s said.

If he wants absolution, he has to look elsewhere. I do, however, credit him for the confession, which is why I just stay quiet.

“I wanted to be clear that I understand my position here,” Wallace continues. “I am the interloper who brought this on your town. I realize now what I’ve done, and I’m sorry it took five deaths for me to understand that.” Another few steps in silence. “I really did believe this solution was a valid one. But the hard truth is that anyone who comes into contact with Oliver is at risk. The only truly viable solution is one that doesn’t put him into contact with anyone. Ever.”

Execution. That’s what he means, and I stiffen, fearing he’s hinting that we should resolve this with lethal action. But his gaze is straight ahead, distant.

Jail is no longer an option. We both know that. It ceased to be an option as soon as Brady came here. Put him into custody, and he’ll cut a deal any way he can, including talking about Rockton.

I don’t know where to go with this, what to say, so after I glance back for Phil, I change the subject with, “You say it’d be a blow to your personal finances, but Oliver claims your family money comes from his father—from a business he started.”

Wallace nods. “Yes, that’s his version of history, and it’s our fault. His mother’s and mine. We wanted to keep his father alive for him. Honor him with a legacy of success.”

“And the truth?”

“I worked for Oliver’s father. At one time, we were partners, but when we formed the business, the money came from his family, so his name went on it. That seemed fair. The problem was that while David was an incredible inventor, he didn’t have a lick of business sense. I lacked the clout to overrule him, and at the time of his death, the company was floundering.”