Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(27)

“Now just give you your damn coffee?”

My smile grows. “I’d never say that.” I take the steaming mug, and he passes over the box of cookies from yesterday. “Saved them for you.”

“I’m spoiled.”

“It’s my detective-retention program. In return for sticking with a shitty, shitty job, you get fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies delivered to your bedside. Also, sex. The last one’s a sacrifice, but I really need a good detective.”

I laugh and grab his shirtfront, pulling him into a kiss. The door opens. I don’t let go of Dalton. I just look over, hoping whoever it is sees that they’re intruding, backs out and lets me have a few quiet minutes with my coffee and my guy before the day implodes.

It’s Phil. He stands there, looking at us, bewildered, as if he’s walked into the wrong movie theater.

“I need to speak to you both,” he says.

“Of course you do,” I say. “Because it’s four AM, the sun is peeking over the horizon, and God forbid we get to enjoy our morning coffee in peace.”

“I’ll . . . come back in a few minutes.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “Sit down. Have coffee. Behave, and I’ll share my cookies. Not sharing my rug, though. Or my sheriff.”

Phil blinks at me.

Dalton snorts a laugh as he goes to pour another coffee. “She’s in a good mood, Phil. We both are. Roll with it. Under the circumstances, it’s not going to last.”

He holds out the coffee. Phil looks down as if checking for cyanide.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dalton mutters. “Do you prefer us in a pissy mood?”

I stand up, take the coffee and hold it out to Phil. “Eric’s right. We’re in a good mood. Neither of us cares to start our day off with a confrontation, so I’m going to be more bluntly honest than usual. This is your turning point, Phil. Your moment of reckoning. You are stuck in Rockton. Hopefully, it’s temporary. We both know it might not be. So you have the same choice Val did when she arrived. You may become part of this town, however much you hate it.”

“Or you can say ‘fuck that,’” Dalton says. “Fuck making the best of it. Hole up in your house. Come out when necessary. Fight us every step of the way. And hope that works out for you.”

“Hope I don’t shoot you,” I say.

Dalton winces and glances my way. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know. But it’s true.”

Dalton turns to Phil. “I fucked up with Val. I didn’t understand her. I couldn’t relate to her. The first time we met, I could feel her contempt and I don’t have the patience for that. I gave as good as I got. That was my mistake.”

“Mine was the opposite,” I say. “I thought I did understand her. Or I tried to. I reached out. I wanted to help bridge the rift, mostly for Eric and Rockton, but partly for her, too. She saw that, and she had just as much contempt for me. In my case, she hid it. Right up until the end.”

“When she left you with one choice,” Dalton says.

I shrug, gaze shifting to Phil’s mug.

“One choice,” Dalton repeats. “Val made her choice, and she pushed us to ours, and the upshot of that is that Val Zapata was a bitch. A fucked-up, narcissistic, homicidal bitch. That’s who the council gave us as their representative.” He meets Phil’s gaze. “You’d have to work hard to be worse. Wouldn’t have to do much to be better. Bar’s set pretty low. But ultimately, it’s your choice.”

Phil takes the mug from me. Then he looks around and very gingerly lowers himself to the floor as we join him on the rug.

I pass him the cookies.

*

And so, in the wee hours of breaking dawn, Dalton and I share cookies and coffee with Phil, and we all come to a better understanding of one another’s position, and we leave committed to working together for a better Rockton.

Yeah . . .

That is my fantasy version every damn time I sit down with someone who’s locking horns with us, whether it’s debating the gender politics of brothels with Isabel or dealing with Jen’s Greek-chorus critique of my every move. Yet none of my attempts to broker peace approached my efforts with Val. None approached the degree of success I enjoyed with Val. In light of how that turned out, I should really stop trying.

I don’t think I’ll extend myself that way again. At least, not for a very long time. I’d say “once burned,” but it’s not the first time.

I reach out, I get slapped back, and I keep reaching out. Sometimes, I do make inroads, but right now, I’m about ready to do exactly what Dalton did with Val. To look at Phil and say, “You don’t want to help us? Fuck you, too.” Except Dalton’s approach didn’t resolve the Val problem either.

One problem with having Dalton and me in leadership roles is that we’re both stubborn as hell. And we stubbornly hold onto the notion that the average person is good—or can be, at least, like Mathias, an ally in our cause, whether he believes in it or not.

Another thing we both have in spades? Pride. Which means there is no way we’ll beg Phil for help. We can’t even pretend that we need his assistance. We will meet him halfway and nothing more.

We don’t reach that midpoint during this meeting. To be honest, if we did, I’d suspect Phil’s motivation. What we do manage is a civil conversation.