Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(75)

“And then?”

“He opens his mouth, like he’s ready to snap at me. He stops. Regroups. And that look vanishes. He asks if there are any options. His voice changes when he asks it. His whole demeanor does. Have you had any encounters with him?”

“Just a quick hello as we pass. He seems nice. Quiet, but very polite. Kind of sweet, actually. A nice, respectful kid.”

“Exactly. That’s what he changed into. He politely asked for options, and my back went down. I explained that the only alternative is . . .” He waves ahead to the building ahead. “A really shitty bottom floor apartment that we’ve been using for storage. He says he’d take that, if possible. He’ll clear it and clean it, whatever we need, and he’s very sorry for the inconvenience, but he has anxiety issues and would prefer to not have a roommate.”

“So you gave him this place.”

“We’ve had people who’ll sleep in a damned closet if it means they don’t have a roommate. Personally, I understand that. I used to tell women that my place was a mess, so they’d never expect to come in, let alone stay. Then I’d give some story about how I need—by law—to sleep in my own house, so people can find me. That gave me an excuse to get the hell back to my place as soon as I could after . . .”

I snort a laugh.

He glances over. “Too much information?”

“Never. So I’m special, huh?”

“I thought you’d figured that out by now. But, yeah, I understand when someone says they’ll do anything to avoid having a roommate, so I let Sebastian take this place.”

“Interesting.”

His brows rise as we climb onto the porch. “Interesting how?”

“Just interesting.”

“You’ll explain later?”

“I will.”

*

Sebastian answers the door groggy, his hair mussed, as if he was asleep. Dalton doesn’t ask if we woke him. He acts as if he doesn’t care, and Sebastian lets us in without a word.

Dalton said that the look Sebastian gave him on the plane made him seem older. Normally, Sebastian looks like a high school senior, though, admittedly, I’ve reached that age where teenagers seem like they should still be in grade school. There’s a smattering of acne on his baby-faced cheeks. Dark blond hair hangs to his shoulders. His hair flops over one eye, and he makes no motion to push it back. He never does. He just lets it hang there and hides behind it.

He’s wearing sweat pants and no shirt, showing an average physique for a guy his age, thin but not skinny, muscle tone from youth and casual sports rather than gym time. As he leads us in, he grabs a T-shirt and tugs it on. There’s a university logo on the front, and I recognize it, saying, “Alma mater?”

“Uh . . .”

“Sorry,” I say with a smile. “You don’t have to tell me. That’s the rule. Say nothing you don’t want to say.”

“Nah, it’s not that. I’d love to say yes, it’s where I went. I wanted to. It just never worked out. A girl I knew went and gave it to me. Like one of those stupid vacation shirts. Someone I know went to Western, and all I got was this crappy T-shirt.”

He smiles when he says it, a little self-conscious, hands shoved into his pockets. As I study his face, I curse Mathias. He’s told me he sees signs of sociopathy in Sebastian, so now I’m looking for them. Sociopathy, like psychopathy, is a manifestation of borderline personality disorder. As for the difference between the two, well, I’ve heard so many theories that I’ll have to ask Mathias for his personal distinction. I know that either type is dangerous.

Of the mental disorders, schizophrenia gets the worst PR. People hear about that in conjunction with horribly violent crimes, and they think every person with it is a frothing madman. I know people with schizophrenia who manage it just fine, and even at their worst they’ve never committed a violent act. It’s sociopathy that scares me because a sociopath isn’t that ranting killer, lost in delusion and madness. It’s the person who commits crimes because they see no reason not to.

Mathias says he has traits of sociopathy. I won’t argue that self-diagnosis. He is charming. He is manipulative. And while I believe—perhaps naively—that he’s capable of caring about people, it seems an active choice, which he applies to very, very few people. He is definitely dangerous. He has definitely killed people. And I doubt he loses a moment’s sleep over it.

Mathias told me that this young man shows sociopathic traits, so I’m analyzing his every move. I don’t want to. I prefer to form my opinions without bias. But that’s why I have Dalton with me. I’ve told him nothing, and yet he’s already admitted that Sebastian reminded him of Mathias.

Sebastian leads us inside. The apartment has the same setup as Diana’s, and he motions to the sofa. We sit, and he starts to lower himself to the armchair and then stops, hovering over it.

“Drinks,” he says. “Would you like . . . ?” He looks at the cold fire. “Uh, I’ve got water. I think there’s a beer?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” I say. “We’re sorry for coming by so late. I’m sure you were sleeping.”

He doesn’t say no, that’s fine. He doesn’t argue either. Just nods.

I continue, “We’re burning the midnight oil on this case. Making the rounds to those who don’t have alibis.”