City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(80)

I shake my head and continue mulling over the pages.

“Speaking of getting stuff from the boss, do you need anything?”

“Unless it’s urgent, I’m leaving him alone.”

“Let me rephrase that. Can you find something you need from him?”

I turn to Anders.

“He’s kinda stuck with Beth,” he says. “She needs the support, but …” He shrugs and eases back onto the desk. “Beth can be a bit … hover-y, if that’s a word. She’s worried about Eric, how he’s dealing with this, and for him, that’s a little …”

“Suffocating?”

“Exactly. He’s there because it’s the right thing to do, and he knows she’s in pain …”

“But he could use a break?”

He nods. “I could take him something—minor trouble in town—but Beth won’t appreciate me bugging him with the trivial shit. You’re the detective on Abbygail’s case. She can’t argue with that.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”





Seven



The moment I set foot in Beth’s house, I know we should have rescued Dalton sooner. It’s not Beth herself. She’s grieving, and as a friend, Dalton wants to help. But there’s an oppressive air in the house that would indeed suffocate him. An air of inactivity, of pressure to stay in one place. Dalton might spend hours on the back deck, but his brain is busy. Here, he’s stagnant in every way, sitting in a chair, gripping the arms, like a boy at an elderly aunt’s, counting down the minutes to his escape.

When I walk in, he’s on his feet so fast I cringe with guilt. Last night, he’d tried to linger at the station. Hinted he’d appreciate a reason to stay. I should have paid more attention.

“You need something, detective?” he says, with such eagerness that it drives the guilt wedge deeper.

“I’m sure it can wait,” Beth says.

“I was just—” I begin.

“It’s late,” she says firmly. “Eric deserves time off, and whatever your question, there’s nothing he can do about it until morning.”

“Right, I … How about a drink? Both of you. Come out to the Lion and we’ll—”

“Thank you, but no.”

“I could use one,” Dalton says. “You could, too, Beth. Casey? Run back and tell Will to join us after his shift. After. No cutting out early.”

“Sure thing, boss,” I say, and I’m out the door before Beth can argue.


A week ago, if Dalton had told me to make Anders finish his shift, I’d have thought he was being a jerk. Now I understand it’s simply strategy. If Anders can’t head straight to the Lion with me, then Dalton has an excuse for leaving Beth’s—me drinking by myself at the Lion would be asking for trouble.

By the time I get there, he already has a table.

He’s alone, and when I say, “Beth didn’t come?” the flash of guilt in his eyes makes me regret commenting. I quickly say, “She’s probably in need of a little alone time herself.”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to leave her last night. But another night on the couch? Hell, no.” He stops and pulls a face. “That’s inconsiderate, isn’t it.”

I slide into the seat across from him. “I don’t think you’re ever inconsiderate, Eric.”

“You been drinking already, detective? I’m the designated local *, remember?”

“Someone has to do it. You recognize when you’re being an *, which means it’s not like you’re too inconsiderate to know better.”

“But if I recognize I’m being an *, and I still do it, doesn’t that only make me more of one?” He rubs his face. “Fuck, I’m in a mood. You might not want to have a drink with me.”

“Too late.” I set two beers on the table, and open one.

“You got something to ask me? About the case?”

I take a long draft of my beer and then say, “Nope.”

He chuckles. “All right. Yeah, I needed the break, so thanks. I’m just not good at the condolences shit. I want to be, but … you know.”

“I do.”

We share a look. He nods and then says, “I’m going to Dawson City tomorrow. Get away. Clear my head. I’ll be doing research, of course. You want to come with me?”

I arch my brows. “Pretty sure that’s not allowed, boss.”

“Fuck that.”

I laugh.

“No, really, f*ck that,” he says, putting down his beer with a clack. “You’re my detective. We have a serial killer. You need access to the Internet to do a proper job. Fuck ’em if they don’t like it.”

“You don’t really mean that,” I say, my voice low.

He shifts in his seat. Like a chained beast, rattling its shackles. “I’ll tell Val. Tell her. Not ask. If she argues … we’ll see. But if you want to go … No, f*ck that, too, because if I give you the option, you’ll worry that it’ll get me in trouble. You’re coming. It’ll be an overnight trip. Back for the memorial. We’ll leave at noon. We’ll spend the morning at the station, let Will sleep, make sure nothing new comes in before we go.”