Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(53)

I get some sleep. I have to. I’m running on fumes.

Dalton brings Storm home. We pull the blackout blinds and keep the alarm off and crash into dreamless sleep.

Six hours later, Dalton comes downstairs to find me in my bra and panties, stretched out on the bearskin rug, as I jot notes in my book, Storm by my side. He walks past me without a word and bends in front of the fire, which is down to smoldering ashes.

“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to stoke it.”

“Kettle won’t boil without fire,” he says, nodding at the kettle I set over the wood. He pulls the handle to bring the kettle in. As he hefts it, he frowns. Then he tilts it. Nothing runs out.

“There was water,” I say. “It must have boiled dry.”

“Do I even want to ask how long you’ve been up?”

He shakes his head as he takes the kettle into the kitchen, and then brings it back, hangs it and relights the fire.

Dalton sits cross-legged beside me. He doesn’t say a word. Just sits and watches as I write. When I finish jotting a few notes, I glance up. He’s wearing only his boxers, and I tilt my head to admire the view as my fingertips tickle his bare thigh.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says.

I sigh and roll onto my back. “Sorry. Just . . .” I make a face. “Busy.”

“Nah.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and taps my temple. “Busy.”

“Same thing.”

“No.” He shifts closer and leans over me. “Garcia is dead. His killer isn’t going anywhere. Nor is that killer likely to be a danger to anyone else. You could sleep more. You just . . .” He taps my temple again. “Can’t sleep more. Your brain’s spinning like a clothes dryer.”

I smile. “Clothes dryers don’t actually spin very fast.”

“Tornado then. I’ve never seen one of those either, but I know it’s fast.” He pauses. “I’ve used dryers in hotels. Just never paid any attention to how they work.”

I laugh.

“What?” he says.

“The way you say that. As if you have inexcusably missed an opportunity by not observing the normal operating habits of clothes drying machines. But yes, your point is taken. My brain’s spinning. I did manage to sleep for a few hours. After that, I couldn’t, and it made more sense to spew my thoughts on the page.”

He looks at the open book. “Doesn’t look spewed.”

“That’s because you arrived at the right time, as I’m organizing the mess into helpful categories and tables. You want to see spew?”

I leaf back and lift the book. It’s an entire page of questions, almost all crossed out.

He leans closer. “Trying to narrow down the subpopulations of suspects.”

“Yep, same damn thing I do every time. And the same damn thing that fails every time.”

“It doesn’t fail. It just doesn’t work as neatly as it does down south. We’re a unique situation up here.”

I snort a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.” I flip onto my stomach, and he stretches out beside me as I point to the list. “I initially tried to figure out who Garcia came for. That’s when I was still half asleep and forgot it doesn’t matter. So anything he may have told us about his target—which is precious little—is meaningless.”

“Not meaningless. Just because his target may not be the killer doesn’t me I don’t want to know who his target was.”

“He didn’t specify gender. Didn’t specify how long the person had been here. He said the crime was violent, but as you pointed out, that might be bullshit. The point, however, is that the killer thought they were his target, which gives us a bit to go on. At first, I thought ‘Ah-ha, that means they’re American!’ But no, Artie isn’t, and he thought he was the target. So, ultimately, we are left with knowing only that our killer has committed a crime that would warrant someone—U.S. Marshal or bounty hunter or hired killer—coming after them. I’ll just say that I’m really glad Will and I are off the list, because otherwise, we both fit. So do about a dozen people in that little black book of yours, plus God knows how many whose real stories we don’t know.”

“Huh. So it’s like one of those murders in the city where you find a body and don’t have a line of suspects queued up behind it.”

I knock my shoulder against his. “Yes, smart ass.” I move forward in the book. “Which is why I gave up trying to narrow my suspect pool and started compiling a list of physical evidence. First and foremost is the bullet. We have a limited number of guns here and a limited number of people who have access to them. As soon as my sister digs out that bullet . . .”

I catch his expression. “She already has, hasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Last night. You were busy, so I handled it, and then after Paul, there wasn’t a chance to talk. It’s a nine mil.”

“Wait. What? There only person who carries that caliber is me. You were there. There’s no way in hell I shot Garcia.”

“There’s another nine mil in town. Just not one of ours.”

“Who . . . ? Garcia. Right. He brought a nine mil. It was in lockup.”

I see his expression again. “No, not in lockup. In our house.”