Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(64)

I do. For us, a model citizen is someone like Nicole or Sam or Kenny. They’re the first to pitch in during a literal fire, and the last to cause a figurative one. Others just want to do their work, pull exactly their share of the load and otherwise keep their head down. They’re model residents rather than model citizens. Nonentities who pass through Rockton without leaving any impression, for better or worse. That accounts for probably two thirds of our population.

Dalton continues. “When I read Sebastian’s story, it reminded me of Abbygail’s. I wanted to talk to you about it. Just . . .” He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Talk. In the back of my mind, yeah, I hoped maybe Sebastian might be my chance to set the things right. That sounds crazy. I just figured, if another kid like Abbygail came here and everything went smoothly, I might feel like the scales are balanced.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.”

I take his hand and entwine it with mine. I don’t say anything. What happened with Abbygail wasn’t his fault, but he knows that. Everyone who knew her still feels the sting of her death, of misplaced guilt. She died before I arrived—her murder is what brought me here. Abbygail came to Rockton at nineteen, younger than residents were supposed to be, and far more messed up than they were supposed to be. For her, a hellish childhood led to a life on the streets and teen prostitution and drug abuse. When she tried to escape that life, it followed her, old associates setting fire to her parents’ house. Her mother and father died in the blaze. After that, someone got her to Rockton.

Like me, Abbygail hadn’t wanted to come here. And like me, this town saved her. Isabel and Dalton and others got her on the right track, destined for nursing school once she returned down south. Only she never got that chance. She was brutally murdered, and it doesn’t matter if no one could have foreseen or prevented that, they still feel as if they failed her. To them, it’s as if she’d been drowning, and they grabbed her hand, and when they relaxed too soon, a shark pulled her back under.

“Sebastian reminded you of Abbygail,” I say.

“His story did. I read it, and I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn’t, of course. I figured maybe I would anyway. Fuck the rules. They didn’t apply in a case like that. Like with Abbygail—we didn’t go around telling everyone her background, but some people had to know. Sebastian seemed like that. But then . . .” Dalton shrugs. “He wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t like Abbygail.”

“Wasn’t what I expected. His background’s similar. Shitty fucking childhood. Tossed around by his relatives, like a puppy no one wanted. Had some arrests. Petty theft, selling pills. Ended up in group homes. Things got worse after that. He joined . . . I don’t know what you call it. I’d say a gang, but it wasn’t like that. Wasn’t like the mob either. Somewhere in the middle. He wanted out, and they weren’t letting him go, so a guardian angel sent him here.”

I pause. “That’s . . . not what I expected. We haven’t talked much but that wouldn’t have been the background I picked for him.”

“No, shit, huh? I expected him to be like Abbygail, a tough kid fighting me every step of the way. Or maybe a scared kid, happy to get out of there. He’s a little older than her—twenty-one—but still a kid. What I got was . . .”

He throws up his hands. “I don’t even know what I got. He’s there, but he’s not there. I meet him, and he does whatever I tell him to. He answers whatever I ask. It’s like dealing with a fucking robot. He never acts. He just responds. Usually, when someone’s like that, I can get a sense of what’s behind it. Maybe they’re uncertain, feeling out the situation, careful not to cause trouble. Maybe they’re pissy, doing as they’re told and nothing more. With Sebastian?” He shakes his head. “Nothing. I was going to talk to you about it, but what would I say? The kid creeps me out? What kind of bullshit is that?”

“A valid personal reaction. A gut feeling.”

Dalton makes a face. “Based on what? He’s polite. He does as he’s told. There’s no sarcasm there, no snark, no sense of repressed anger. Guy’s a fucking perfect resident, and I’m complaining?”

“Well, Mathias thinks there’s something wrong with him.”

“Like what?”

“For now, he’d like us to just speak to him. Get our responses.” I hop from the desk. “We can do that right after we tell April about tomorrow.”





TWENTY-SEVEN

I find April at the clinic and promise she’s leaving tomorrow, and there’s no reason to tell anyone other than Kenny and Isabel. The council hasn’t refused to let her go. We just aren’t asking permission.

April doesn’t like that. She doesn’t actually complain, but she fusses and frets, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the subterfuge. Still, the important thing is that she’s leaving. Definitely leaving. If that causes trouble, we’ll deal with it after she’s gone.

Before we leave, she picks up a pill bottle from the counter. “I presume you need this. It should be put somewhere for safekeeping.”

I lift the bottle. It contains the bullet she took from Garcia.

“We’ve identified the caliber,” I say. “That’s really all we need. We already know the gun used so . . .”