City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(78)

The arm was cut off at the elbow. Chopped with an axe, she guesses, like Powys’s legs. She believes it was done post-mortem. I don’t know that’s possible to tell given the condition of the arm, but I don’t question. This small mercy is all they have—to hope Abbygail’s passing was painless.

I write the report for Beth as she dictates. Then I’m back at the station, compiling a full report. It’s late now. I have no idea how late. I don’t check because it doesn’t matter. I will work until the work is done.

When the door opens, I get to my feet, expecting townspeople and ready with my script. Yes, we found Abbygail’s remains. No, we don’t know anything more. Yes, there will be a memorial service. Yes, you can help with that. Speak to Petra—

Dalton walks in.

I hover there, over my seat, and say, “Hey.”

“Saw the light on,” he says. “Figured it was you.”

He comes in and, for once, he doesn’t head straight to the back deck. He just stands inside the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Then I grimace. “I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Said it and said it and …” I inhale. “And now I’m rambling. Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head, walks to the coffee station, and I see there’s a bottle in his hand. Tequila. He pours rough shots into two mugs.

“If there’s anything I can …” I begin. “I mean, whatever you …” I slump back into the chair. “I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

“You’re fine.”

“No, I’m not. I suck at this. At least, I do with people I know. I’m actually good at it with strangers. On the job, I was usually the one to break the news and stay with the families. Surprisingly.”

He brings over his mug but leaves mine on the counter. “Why surprisingly?”

I shrug. “I’m not exactly warm and cuddly, as you may have noticed.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

My cheeks heat at that, and I rise to retrieve the tequila shot he left me.

“Hold up,” he says. “Need to ask you to do something before you drink that.”

I sink back into the chair. “Sure.”

“You sew?” he asks.

“What?” I’m sure I’ve misheard.

“Sew. Needle. Thread.” He takes both out of his pocket and sets them on the desk. Then he peels off his jacket to reveal a gaping wound on his upper arm.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

“I nicked it coming out of that tight passage.”

“Nicked it? You ripped your arm open, Eric.”

He’d pulled his jacket on as soon as he came out of the passage, hiding the wound because it wasn’t the time. Now, five hours later, it is finally the time.

“You need to get that fixed,” I say. “There’s a limited window for stitching before the wound starts to heal, and it’s too late to pull it together …”

Stitching. Sewing.

I look down at the needle and thread. “You’re asking me to sew your arm.”

“Yeah. Can’t ask Beth right now. Anders is busy. It’s only a few stitches. If you’d rather not, though …”

I examine the wound. It’s a couple of inches long and doesn’t go very deep. Still nasty. Still in need of stitching.

“I’ll run to the clinic and grab proper equipment,” I say. “Give me five minutes.”


I really do run. Beth is gone, thankfully, because Dalton is right—we don’t want to bother her with this. There are two emergency kits, which include sutures. Anders had carried one caving. Dalton just hadn’t asked to use it because, well, that’s Dalton.

I grab a kit, lock the door, and get back to him. As I walk in, he downs his shot of tequila.

“Smart man,” I say. “This won’t tickle.”

He grunts.

“If it’s any consolation, I actually have done this before,” I say. “When I was a kid and my stuffed animals would rip, I’d use sutures. Does that make you feel better?”

I smile as I look up, but he only nods.

I clean the wound. “I’m kidding. Well, not about stitching up my toys. I did that. There actually was a time when I wanted to become a doctor. Of a sort. A veterinarian.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I laugh softly as I finish cleaning. “My parents freaked. Operate on animals? To them that’s a waste of good medical supplies. You only become a vet if you aren’t good enough to be a ‘real’ doctor. They took away my toys so I couldn’t play animal hospital anymore.”

I prepare the suture thread, still talking, mostly to keep him distracted. “But I have sewn people. Myself, actually. When I was fourteen, I went whitewater rafting without telling my parents. Sliced up my leg. Stitched up my leg.”

“You stitched your own leg?”

I shrug. “They were teaching me a lesson.”

“Your parents made you stitch your leg?”

I slide the suture needle in. “It was fine. They supervised and gave me topical antiseptic, probably better than the one I just used on you. And it was a spot I could reach easily enough.”

He’s quiet, and I figure he’s gritting his teeth against the pain. When I finish the stitches, though, he says, his voice low, “That’s f*cked up, Casey.”