Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(94)

He meets my gaze again. “That’s my defense against being this guy’s target. I know he didn’t come for me, so I had no reason to kill him. Even if you don’t believe that, shooting him makes no sense. I’ve been in jail since I was eleven. I got out less than a year ago, and there’s no way in hell anyone would let me take marksmanship lessons or join a gun club. I don’t exactly pass security checks.” His lips quirk in a not-quite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Our gun laws don’t mean it’s impossible to get access to them. You spent years in juvenile facilities. Enough to make contacts. Enough to pose as a drug-dealing, car-jacking street kid.”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Yeah, and I pulled that off so well. I thought it’d be easy. You’re right—for seven years, I’ve lived with kids like that. When I was told to come up with a story for the sheriff here, I figured I could fake that well enough, as long as I kept my head down.” He shakes his head. “How long did it take you to see through it? Two minutes? I could tell I’d blown my cover, which is why I came out here to see if you’d found me online.”

I say nothing.

He continues. “Yes, I lived with those guys, but as you could tell by my lame story, we weren’t exactly BFFs. Those were kids who sold dope or turned tricks to survive. I was a rich brat who murdered his parents because they wouldn’t let him go to school. I scared them, and not in a good, respectful way. Even if I wanted a gun, none of them would sell me one, not at any price. So I can’t shoot. I barely know which end the bullets came out of. I know you’re going to need to keep me in mind as a suspect, and I’m okay with that. I’m not your killer. My bigger concern is that I am a killer, and you know it. What are we going to do about that?”

“What should I do?”

That direct look again, almost chillingly mature. “Send me back ‘down south’ as you say. If I were you, in charge of keeping people safe, I wouldn’t want me here. But I’m me, and I know what I’m capable of, and I also know what I’m likely to do, and those are two very different things.”

“Are they?”

“I’m not eleven years old anymore, Detective Butler. I could say that I didn’t know what I was doing at that age, but that would be a lie. I can hope I’m not the same person who did those things but . . .” He holds my gaze. “I’ve spent seven years working on not being that person, on overcoming what is missing in here.” He taps his head. “Learning strategies to deal with my condition. I have had help—amazing help—and I’d like to think that your council checked with my therapists before they approved my application, and that they would never let me come up here if they thought I was dangerous.”

“Do you worry that you’re dangerous?”

It takes him a long time to answer that. “Do I worry that I’ll flip out and knife some guy who cuts me off in the coffee line? Absolutely not. Do I worry that if someone knifed me in the coffee line, I’d retaliate with worse? Yes. I murdered my parents. I have not denied it since those first attempts to cover up my crime. I can never undo what I did. I can never promise that, under the right—or wrong—circumstances, I wouldn’t do it again. I know you don’t understand that. You can’t.”

Again, I hope I don’t react. I hope I am as stone-faced as I try to be. If I’m not, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’re here to escape that,” I say. “But no one exposed you. You weren’t hiding.”

He lets out a laugh far too bitter for a nineteen-year-old. “I was hiding from the moment they released me. We had to use decoys to get me out. And then I was just . . .” He shrugs. “On my own. I won’t whine about that. As far as most people are concerned, I should still be behind bars, and I don’t disagree. I’m glad I’m not, obviously but . . .”

“Freedom isn’t quite what you expected?”

That harsh laugh, almost choking on it now. “God, I was an idiot. They kept me isolated in there—from what went on with my case. I figured by now, no one cared, and I’d be a real boy, like fucking Pinocchio.” He looks up sharply. “Sorry. I don’t mean to swear.” A long pause, and then a hint of that laugh again. “The kid who murdered his parents, apologizing for cursing. Fucking hell.”

He goes quiet, as if collecting himself, and I don’t interrupt. When he’s ready, he says, “I thought once I was out, I could go to school. Yes, I’m still that kid. The boy who wanted to go to school the way other kids wanted to go to Disney World. I have my high school diploma. I graduated with a ninety-eight percent average. Clearly, I would get my dream. I’d go to Western for my undergrad, and then off to law school at Queens. The boy-murderer who became a public prosecutor. A good news story. A story no one, as it turns out, wants to hear. They want the story of the monster, unleashed again on the world and—”

He bites his lip hard enough that blood wells. He looks up at me. “Sorry. That’s whining again. I don’t want to be like that. I try very, very hard not to. No excuses. No feeling sorry for myself.”

There’s a blur of movement behind him, and my head jerks up as Dalton steps from behind a tree. He has his gun, but it’s only half-raised as he assesses the situation.

“We’re fine,” I say.