City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(83)

“Okay,” I say. “Time to get to work, right?”

“No work.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s no work here. Just this.” He waves at the lookout. “Thought you might like to see it.”

I grin so wide I can feel the stretch of it.

Here, in the middle of this wilderness, I am something I’ve never been in my life. Free. Free not only of the guilt and the fear over Blaine, but free of expectations, too. I’ve lived my life in the shadow of expectations, and the certainty I will fail, as I did with my parents. Now those are lifted, and I’m happy. Unabashedly happy.

I look down, and Dalton’s staring at me. I flash another grin for him, and he looks away quickly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

“This is okay, then?” he says.

“No, it’s awful. This is my bored face. Can’t you tell?”

I’m teasing, but he drops his gaze and mumbles something I don’t quite catch. I hop down and walk to a campfire ring.

“You want one of those?” he asks.

I look over.

“Bonfire,” he says. “I brought stuff if you do. Wood, tequila, bag of marshmallows.”

My grin returns. I’m sure I look like an idiot by now, but I can’t help it. “Yes. Please and thank you.”

He pushes to his feet. “Like I said, we needed a break. I come up here most nights when I have to fly to Dawson. I’ve even fallen asleep on that bench. Unless it’s a weekend, you don’t usually get anyone else up here this time of year.”

Which is kind of unbelievable. It is truly a once-in-a-lifetime view. But like Dalton said when I first arrived, there’s plenty of scenery here for those who want to see it. This is their normal. My normal now.

“So you come up and have a bonfire?” I say.

“By myself?” He snorts and shakes his head.

“Ah, that’s the real reason you invited me. Someone to roast marshmallows with.”

Again, I’m teasing, but again he looks away and mumbles something.

I watch him build the fire. Soon we’re settled in beside the flames, enjoying tequila in plastic cups and marshmallows on sticks. Darkness falls, and I barely notice. We’re too busy talking. I remember the studies I mentioned, on lethal violence with chimpanzees, that subject I’ve been keeping in my back pocket for a moment just like this, when I have his attention and want to keep it.

It’s not exactly light and cheerful conversation, but it works for us, and by the time we finish, I’m stretched out on my back, staring up at the stars. Impossibly endless stars.

“I really wish I had my phone right now,” I say.

“Huh?”

“I have an app that identifies the constellations. You just point it, and it knows what section of the sky you’re looking at and tells you what you’re seeing. It’s very cool.”

He shakes his head. “Which one are you looking for?”

I smile over at him. “All of them.”

He squints up into the sky. “First you need to find the North Star. You see it up there?”

I point.

“That’s a planet,” he says.

I try again.

“That’d be the space station.” He directs me until I have the North Star and then he says, “Polaris doesn’t move—it’s a fixed point, so you can use it to find your way. It’s not the brightest star, despite what people think. The easiest way to find it is to locate the Big Dipper—Ursa Major, or the Great Bear—and then track it to the Little Dipper—Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear …”





Nine



I may have fallen asleep on that overlook, buzzing from tequila and sugar and blissfully at peace, staring into the sky and listening as Dalton pointed out every constellation we could see. He may have carried me to the car. I may have not woken until morning. Of course, all I remember is his voice, that baritone rumble, talking about Orion, and then it was morning. The rest I’ll have to infer. He doesn’t mention it the next day.

We’re back in Rockton before noon. The day passes smoothly as the clock mends itself. The service for Abbygail comes in the evening. That’s difficult, and when I see Diana walking alone, I go and sit with her on my front porch, the only two who didn’t know Abbygail leaving the others to their grief. While we don’t say much, it’s more comfortable than it’s been since that night at the bar. When she leaves, I consider giving her the hair dye, but I’m afraid she’ll take it as a peace offering and, for once, I admit to myself that I’m not the one who needs to make amends, and so I resist the urge to try.

Come morning, the Rockton clock is ticking again. I see the same neighbours on my way into work. I get my mid-morning coffee, with Dalton joining me, sitting quietly as Devon gives me all the local news and I munch a rare chocolate chip cookie. Apparently, someone brought chips from Dawson City, having recalled an offhand comment that they were my favourite. I’m not the only one who pays attention. Back at the station, Kenny drops by to check the wood and hangs out for a while, giving me tips that aren’t exactly earth-shattering.

Yes, the town is back to itself, and we’re back to work. I’m looking for a connection between the victims, while understanding that there may not be one. By day three, I’m entirely focused on Abbygail. She is where it started. The first one lured into the forest. The youngest and, as I see now from that memorial, the most popular. The girl everyone cared about. Or almost everyone. That’s an easy place to start looking. Who had trouble with her? It’s a short list. At the top of it is Pierre Lang, the pedophile who got into it with her shortly before she disappeared.