Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(38)

Dalton’s eyes are shut, tightly shut, and he looks queasy, as if he wants to tell her to stop, just stop. This is all new to him and it’s too much, hearing it calmly recited. He wants to tell her to stop, yet he doesn’t dare . . . because he doesn’t want her to stop. These are tidbits he’s secretly longed for. I opened Val’s notebook hoping for insight into her, but that’s mere curiosity. This is vital information. It is the truth of where Dalton comes from, of who he is on another level.

“Your mother was due to leave six months after your father arrived. By then, the young couple were deeply in love, and they applied for an extension on her stay. When it was denied, they gathered supplies and headed into the forest. You were born two years later. When you were ten, the Daltons found you in the forest and took you in.”

Dalton’s cheek twitches. He’s holding back words. The ones that say the Daltons did not take him in. They just took him.

The woman continues. “Gene Dalton said you were filthy, unkempt. According to the town doctor, you were severely malnourished.”

Dalton’s mouth opens now, his eyes flashing. He pulls back then, his jaw snapping shut, gaze still simmering.

“I don’t know if that’s true,” she says. “At the time, I questioned it. I wanted to speak to you personally. I was overruled, as I was when I questioned the council’s decision not to extend your mother’s stay. As the sole woman remaining on the board, I was often accused of sentimentality.”

“I was fine,” Dalton says, and he speaks through his teeth, as if he’s struggling against saying words that cannot be kept in. “When they found me, I was fine.”

“I feared that,” she says. “But Gene Dalton was insistent that he’d rescued you from terrible conditions. His wife begged to be allowed to keep you. It was . . . I will say only that Gene Dalton was an excellent sheriff, and even I agreed that Rockton desperately needed him. The Daltons had lost a child shortly before they arrived and . . . We let them keep you, Eric, and we stifled our doubts in return for Gene’s pledge to stay in Rockton until you were grown. That was necessary—you couldn’t be allowed to leave until you were old enough to understand that you had to keep Rockton’s secrets. As it turns out, you wanting to leave wasn’t an issue.”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m sorry. I’m making light, and this isn’t a light situation. It’s an awkward one, and any apology I can offer isn’t enough. The point is that I know you, Eric. I have known you since you arrived in Rockton. I knew your parents since they arrived. If you want further proof, test me. Ask me what Rockton looks like. Where to find the nearest stream or lake in any direction. Ask me what it smells like in the spring, after the ice melts. Ask me what it sounds like at night, when the wolves sing. It may have been fifty years since I lived there, but I still wake up smelling that, hearing that, and when I don’t look out my window to see evergreens, I feel as if I have lost something. Something I gave up when it seemed convenient to do so. There were so many other important things to be done . . . and now I can barely remember what those were, and why they were so important.”

“You lived in Rockton?” I say.

“I was one of the pioneers.”

“The founders?”

A light laugh. “No, I’m not that old. Close, though. Rockton had been operating for about ten years when I arrived with my husband. We were newlyweds. Young and idealistic. We’d made some rather foolish political choices, and his parents sent us to Rockton before we landed in jail. We lived in what is now the main kitchen. There wasn’t a need for such a thing in our time, with barely thirty residents. We stayed for eight years. Gave birth to our son and daughter, and then returned home.”

“And now you’re on the board of directors?”

“We were the board, at one time. My husband, myself and another couple—friends we made in Rockton. When we came home, my husband returned to his family business. A very prosperous business. His friend also came from money, as they say. When Rockton over-expanded and needed investors, we offered. My in-laws saved our lives by sending us to Rockton, and the town itself saved us too, giving us a fresh outlook that we were able to bring home. The board has grown, obviously.” She goes quiet for a moment. “It has retracted, too. My husband is gone, as is one of the dear friends who founded it with us. The other is . . . unable to perform his duties. Dementia. Which means, of the original four, only I remain. There are several newer members, too, who joined as former Rockton refugees. Fellow idealists. And then there are the rest.”

“The investors.”

“Yes, and if you’re hoping for tales told out of school, you have the wrong woman. I know neither of you is particularly fond of anyone one on this end of the receiver. I will not defend them. Nor will I condemn. I am here to mediate the current situation. After the upheaval with Val and Phil—and the situation with Oliver Brady—I have used what little power I retain to grab the microphone, so to speak. I will be clear. My job here is to resolve the current situation, not to interfere with the town’s management. That would be beyond the limits of what I’m permitted to do in this capacity.”

She’s warning us that she doesn’t dare overstep her bounds. That night be true. Or it might be a convenient way to fend off complaints. It doesn’t matter. We aren’t looking for someone to complain to. We wouldn’t trust anyone who offered to listen.