Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(62)

“Speaking of screwing up . . . With everything happening, I totally forgot about Petra until dinner time. Let’s just say she was very happy to see me.”

“As far as you know, then, was anyone inside the station between those visits?”

“If they were, she’d have been shouting for her bathroom break. But the cell door was locked, Casey. I’m absolutely sure of it. I don’t walk away without checking. I had the key on me the whole time.” He pats his pocket.

“I’m sure it was locked. I’m sure you had the key. I’m just not sure there isn’t a second key.”

“Sure, there is. Eric has . . . Oh, you mean a third key. You suspect the council?”

“They had one to the gun locker. That’s how Val got the rifle. She—and now Phil—may have keys to everything.”

“So Phil slips Petra the key earlier. Or he lets her out when Paul starts running around telling everyone that you’re bringing in the prisoner. Phil knew you guys had Garcia’s gun, right?”

I pause. Then I curse. “Yes, of course. We told him we’d taken the gun and satellite phone. I totally forgot about it.”

“So if Petra works for the council, Phil shows up, hands her the gun, unlocks the door and she slips out the back. Straight into the forest.”

“Where we’re bringing in Garcia.”





TWENTY-SIX

Anders is certain Dalton’s in the station, but when I walk in, there’s no sign of him. I’m looking around when hands close around my waist. I jump as Dalton pulls me into an embrace.

“Have I warned you about sneaking up on me?” I say.

He swings onto the desktop and kicks his heels against the desk, legs swinging like a kid’s. “Missed you.”

“Uh-huh. Someone’s in a very good mood. Had a productive afternoon, I take it?”

“Nope. Had such a fucking shitty and utterly pointless afternoon that the mere sight of you—even when you’re annoyed with me—puts me into an exceptionally good mood.”

I lift my brows. Then I spot the tequila bottle on the desk.

“Ouch,” I say. “That bad, huh?”

He gives a half shrug. The tequila is mine. Dalton isn’t accustomed to hard liquor. He’ll drink it only with me, when he’s free to be like this, a little carefree, a little boyish.

“It was drink a shot of tequila or collapse on the floor sobbing,” he says. “I don’t think anyone needs to see me cry.”

I press between his knees and put my hands around his neck. “Wanna talk about it?”

Another half shrug. “I’m being silly. Tired and frustrated and slightly punch drunk. I got nothing from the neighbors. No one saw a damned thing. I was hoping to bring you a lead, and I hit a brick wall so yeah, I’m tired, frustrated, punch drunk, maybe even a little actual drunk.”

“Well, I have leads. First, though, we need to talk about April.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Fuck. What’s she done now?”

“Nothing. She’s actually on her best behavior. But it’s Sunday, Eric, and we have to get her to Dawson tomorrow.”

He nods. “I know, and we will. We should go to Dawson anyway. You wanted to research Garcia, and there are a few background stories I’d like to verify.”

“April wonders whether she’ll be allowed to go.”

“What? Fuck, yeah, she can leave. We don’t need a doctor badly enough to kidnap her. And not badly enough to want her.”

“She means the council. Since we snuck her in—and now she’s a suspect—will they let her leave?”

He groans, and his gaze slides to the bottle. He doesn’t reach for it, though. Even his glance over is a joke. Law enforcement and isolated northern communities are both known for alcohol abuse. Being law enforcement in a northern community? That’s a trap we don’t even want to skirt. Anders already drinks a little more than we’d like him to. It’s not alcoholism—Dalton wouldn’t put up with that—but up here, it doesn’t take much to worry us.

“Does April have a reason to be concerned?” I ask.

He exhales, air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and studies the timbered ceiling for answers.

“Fuck,” he says. In other words, yes. Like me, he hasn’t considered this, but now that he does, he sees treacherous ground ahead.

“I promised her, Eric,” I say.

“We both did. Don’t go making this about you. I want my share of the blame.”

He leans back far enough to almost collapse on the desktop before he rights himself.

I chuckle. “How many shots did you have?”

“One. I’m a cheap drunk.”

I lean against his shoulder. “You are. And I’m sorry for putting you—”

“No.” He gives me a stern look. “Having met your sister, I now understand why you’re so quick to take all the blame. Because she takes none. If she’s putting the screws to you on this, Casey, please remind her that she knew we were sneaking her in. She chose to ignore our warnings.”

“She realizes that. She’s trying to take her share of the blame, which, yes, isn’t easy for her. Isabel thinks she might be on the spectrum.”