Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(43)

Yes, they had discussed it . . . before that bullet meant Kenny might not be such an asset to Rockton. That’s what it came down to, as horrible as that sounded. We had no capacity to accommodate anyone with serious medical, psychological or intellectual issues.

“Let’s see how it goes,” I say.

*

I leave April with Kenny. As soon as the initial stress of testing him—and talking to him—passes, it’s obvious she wants me gone. I could hope, like with Phil, that airing our differences would lead to a breakthrough. But life doesn’t always work like that.

We see others through a window fogged with condensation, catching only a warped and shadowed image and presenting the same. We squint to see through that condensation, but we use our fog, too. We hide behind it. Wiping it away lets us see clearly . . . and let’s us be seen clearly.

For better or worse. I see my sister better now than I ever have, and I understand too that the damage goes both ways. The damage our parents did. The damage we did—however inadvertently—to one another. I can also see that it might not be the kind of damage we can ever repair. We are two people who wouldn’t have had anything to do with each other if not for kinship. That isn’t hatred or even dislike. It is a simple lack of common ground. I see my sister clearly now, and I still don’t understand her, and I know she looks back at me and says the same.

I have not ruled April out as a suspect. That is painful to admit. I realize too, that in saying that, I wipe away the condensation between myself and world, and I expose myself for what I am. A detective first. And maybe, yes, a person second.

Nothing my sister has said clears her of the charges. She’s given me no excuses, no explanations that I can rely on. I would love—love—to think she came to Rockton for me, but that is not the April I know, not the one I have ever known, and so I cannot trust even this new image I see. I cannot pretend to miss the blur of condensation lingering at the edges.

I spend the rest of the evening alibiing those I can. I’ve worked through the militia, dividing them into those with clear alibis and those without. The former will be given shifts guarding the clinic, and the latter will not. That’s the only distinction we make for now.

Once the militia and patrol volunteers are covered, I move onto friends. That feels biased. Everyone is waiting for their chance to tell me where they were. Many have excellent alibis, having been at work with others when the shots rang out.

To begin with my friends smacks of favoritism. It’s not. These are the people I rely on, the ones I ask for help and advice on a case. As Dalton says when we pause to share updates, “Gotta know who you can trust.”

“In Rockton? That’d be you and . . .” I look around. “You.”

He chuckles and kisses the top of my head. Then I continue on.

Nicole has an alibi—she was on patrol as part of the militia. So was Jen. Mathias was in the butcher shop serving two people when the shots fired. +if I need to alibi out anyone else, this is the spot, otherwise, just make a list

It’s after eleven. Dalton is off putting out a fire. A figurative one, fortunately. But the fact that we’re hunting a killer doesn’t mean the town stops to let us investigate. While he’s busy, I’m walking Storm and joining Nicole on patrol. Or that was the plan. I’m heading into the woods with her and one of the militia guys when Isabel strides from nowhere.

“Walking the pup?” she says.

“While patrolling.”

“Excellent. I will join you.” She falls in step, and I know that means she wants to talk, so I send Nicole and her militia partner the other way.

“So this is patrol?” Isabel says as we walk. “I’m disappointed. I should at least get to carry a gun.”

“You should have brought yours.”

Her brows lift. “I don’t have a gun, Casey.”

“Just checking.”

She chuckles at that. “I know I’m on your suspect list. You unreasonably failed to accept my alibi.”

“You were brewing beer. Alone.”

“I always do it alone. And the beer should provide my alibi. If I left it at that stage to go shoot Garcia, I’d have had to throw out the brew and start over. I may be capable of shooting a man, but I’d never cut into my profits like that.”

I shake my head.

“The question of who had a gun is the main one, isn’t it, though?” she says. “You keep those tightly regulated.”

“We’ll know more when we get that bullet.”

“So your sister hasn’t dug it out of the corpse yet?”

I know better than to react. “For that, we’ll require a corpse, and we aren’t ready to write Marshal Garcia off prematurely.”

She smiles. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” She walks a few more steps and says, “It’s actually your sister—not the case—that I wished to speak to you about. I believe she’d have an easier time in Rockton if others were aware of her condition.”

“Condition?”

She studies me. “May I presume your sister has never been assessed for ASD?”

“ASD?”

“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”

“April?” I laugh. “She has her quirks, but no. She’s a freaking genius. Yes, people with autism can be gifted in some areas, but April was an A+ student in all areas.”