City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(118)

“Fuck if I know. Makes folks feel better, I guess.”

I shake my head and turn to Anders. “What’s the emergency?”

“Uh …” He takes a deck of cards from his back pocket.

When I lift my brows, he says, “I thought you might be bored, so I was coming by to see if you wanted company and entertainment.”

I pause, because I’m thinking that I had both, a few minutes ago, and I’d been very much enjoying them. However, given the fact I’m supposed to be recuperating … Yes, I suspect there’s a limit to how much longer we could have gone before we hit stitch-ripping territory.

I look over at Dalton. He sighs, ever so softly.

“Go make coffee,” he says to Anders. “And grab the rest of the pie.”


We play cards for a couple of hours, up on my bed. We talk about the case, too—about my interviews that day.

I can’t mention Jacob with Anders there. I’m glad of that, because even thinking about him reminds me of what Dalton’s told me about his past, and I’m trying not to dwell on that. He says he doesn’t talk about it because he doesn’t want to be treated like more of a freak than he already is. But I think there’s more to it. He doesn’t want anyone looking that deep.

I suppose hiding his past is easy enough. No one in Rockton was around when Dalton was brought in from the forest. People have cycled through many times since then. The Daltons must have made sure the story didn’t circulate beyond those who’d been present. Dalton got to keep his secret and put forward the face he wants seen: born and bred in Rockton. The truth is so much more complicated. To even think of it—a boy ripped from his family, ripped from his life…

It was kidnapping, pure and simple. Yet not pure and simple, because the Daltons honestly thought they were doing the right thing, saving a wild boy from his savage family and giving him a better life. And it was, in some ways, a better life, and that’s part of the complication. What was it like for Dalton? To realize now, as an adult, that he’d been kidnapped … and that he’d come to love his kidnappers and consider them his parents.

So, yes, complicated. For now, I’ll stick with mindless card games. Of course, that has to come to an end—along with the pie and a pot of coffee. Anders leaves, and when he’s gone, Dalton heads out of the bedroom, saying, “I’ll lock the front door.”

“After you leave, right?”

He turns slowly, looking at me as if he’s really hoping I’m joking. When I say, “I think you should go,” he stands there, not moving, then he runs one hand through his hair as he says, “Fuck, I thought we were …”

He tries to straighten, to pull his usual don’t-give-a-shit attitude back into place, but he doesn’t quite manage it and finally shakes his head and says, “Took a few rounds of cards to sink in, huh? Okay. That’s …” He exhales sharply, his eyes finding their steel. “Goddamn it, Casey, don’t f*ck with me. I don’t know those games, and I sure as hell don’t care to learn them. If you don’t want me—”

“Oh, but I do, which is the problem.” I stretch out on the bed. “Three problems, actually.” I point to my injuries. “I’m ordering you out because I don’t want to explain to Beth how I ripped my wounds open without getting out of bed.”

It takes a moment to sink in. Then he grins. “Okay, then. I’ll behave myself.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

He turns then, and his grin is something new, a little bit wicked and a whole lot pleased.

“I suppose my stitches can be re-sewn,” I say.

“And add a few more days onto your recuperation? No. I’ll stay in my chair. You stay in your bed.”

“All right, then.”

I start to peel off my shirt. I get it halfway over my head and he’s there, tugging it back down.

“None of that,” he says.

“You don’t think I sleep in my clothes, do you?”

“Tonight you will. I’ll keep mine on, too.”

“Mmm, you don’t have to do that.” I reach over and slide my hands under his shirt. I have it off before he realizes he should probably stop me. Then I chuck it across the room, tug him onto the bed, and straddle him, my hands on his face, tilting it up.

“No …” he says.

“What? I’m just getting a look at you.” I run my fingers over his beard shadow. “You’ve stopped shaving.”

“Yeah, got a little busy. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“That wasn’t a complaint. I was really hoping clean-shaven wasn’t a new look for you.”

His brows crease and then he grunts and says, “Right.”

“I’m guessing you did it for our trip.”

There’s this long, awkward pause, his gaze shifting from mine. “Yeah, I just … I wanted to look more …”

“—presentable for going to town.”

He exhales, and nods quickly. “Right.” And I realize that wasn’t the reason at all, and I think of that trip, of the drive up to the lookout, with the bonfire, and I realize he sure as hell wouldn’t have taken Anders up there.

“Well,” I say, “if I have any say in the matter, I like you this way.”