City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(115)

“It’s not. At all. I was angry with myself—”

“Then I accept that, and I’d like to move on. My next interview should be here any second.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he blurts. “When I said I didn’t, I …” More hands-through-hair. Then hands-shoved-in-pockets. “What I meant is that as much as I wanted what we were doing, I know we shouldn’t. It’s just a really bad idea for you and me to start something, and yeah, maybe that wasn’t starting something for you, maybe it was just sex, but it was different for me and—” He exhales hard. “Shit. Stop babbling. Okay. The point is that even if you were interested, there’s a lot of crap in my life, and you don’t need to share that.”

Silence ticks past as I mentally vacillate between saying what I want to say and keeping my mouth shut.

Mentally vacillate? Hell, no. That makes it sound so calm and reasoned. My brain swirls, half of it screaming at me to do it, just do it, stop being such a wimp and take the leap, and the other half screaming at me to keep my mouth shut, don’t go there, don’t open myself up.

I raise my gaze to his. “And what if I want to share that?”

A one-second pause. A split second of surprise and something I can’t quite catch. Then he looks away, and I feel that break like a punch. See? See? I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, Casey.

“You tell me I need to go after what I want,” I say. “But this isn’t about what I want, is it? It’s not about whether I’m willing to share your shit. You don’t want to share it.”

“It’s isn’t—”

“My next interview will be here any moment. Please go down and let him in.”

“I—”

“Go, Eric. Now.”





Five



Back to the case. Because there is, you know, despite all the personal drama, there’s still a killer to be found. Possibly two.

I already know Kenny had seen both Mick and a woman matching Diana’s description heading into the woodshed. I question him thoroughly, but there’s little more to get than that. One other person saw Mick heading toward that side of town. Another saw Diana. Again, not terribly useful, though I do glean a few more details. First, Mick and Diana were not seen together. Second, the witness who saw Diana definitely spotted her alone, meaning no one forced her there.

I continue interviewing people all day, but I don’t get much farther. I confirm that Diana had been with the people she’d claimed to be with. She’d left at the time she’d claimed to leave. She’d been alone. She’d been seen heading in the direction she’d indicated, also alone. As for Mick, those at the Roc that night had seen it play out as Isabel claimed—Mick left at eleven, about an hour after they disappeared into the backroom together.

Dalton stays downstairs during my interviews. Whenever he has to leave, Anders stops by, and I suspect that’s no accident. Dalton isn’t taking chances. There’s a killer in town and so his injured detective is under full-time guard.

When my interviews are done, I nap. I have to—I’m still exhausted. I dream of the forest and of Jacob, and even asleep, my mind works the case. It’s possible that paranoid delusions drove Jacob to kill Abbygail, Powys, and Hastings in the forest. Irene could be a separate case, like Mick. But Abbygail died two months ago, and Dalton says Jacob was fine a few weeks ago.

I’m thinking of that and then dream I’m back in the forest, Jacob with the knife at my throat, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, and my eyes open, and I see his grey eyes right above mine, and I lash out, right hook catching him in the jaw, the left in the gut, and he falls onto me … onto the bed with me, and I realize it’s not Jacob I’ve hit. It’s Dalton.

He backs up fast, wincing.

“And you wonder why I don’t keep a gun under my pillow.”

“Yeah.” He rubs his jaw. “My mistake. I thought you saw me.” A strained half smile. “Well, unless you did. I probably deserve that.” The smile lingers another second. Then it falters. “Or did you think I was—?”

“I was just reacting to someone looming over me as I slept.”

“You were having a bad dream,” he says, and he waits, as if for me to explain.

I sit up and look around, blinking hard.

“I brought dinner,” he says.

He takes a tray from the chair and brings it over and points out what he’s gotten for me. Soup, because it’s easy to eat if I’m not up to solid food. A sandwich if I am—peanut butter and jam, but he can get something different if he’s chosen wrong. And pie. Brian at the bakery asked what he could make for me, and Dalton remembered we’d talked about apple pie. The rest of it is downstairs for later.

I don’t want him to try this hard.

I want him to throw it off. So, yeah, it’s been a shitty forty-eight hours, Butler, but what’s past is past, so let’s move on and I sure as hell hope you aren’t planning to lounge in this bed tomorrow.

I want Dalton’s snap and his growl and his swagger. Instead, I get apple pie and “Are you sure PB&J is okay? They were making shredded venison for tomorrow’s sandwiches. I could get you some of that if you want.”

“What I want is for you to stop apologizing.”