City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(89)

I agree, planning to use the opportunity to talk to her about Dalton. She’s another of his non-supporters, and she doesn’t know him as well as the others do, but I want to get her take on him.

Except, as it turns out, she didn’t insist on dinner because she could tell I needed a friend. She needs one. She’s having trouble at work, and her boss is threatening to fire her. That’s no light matter here. Job disputes go before a committee to see if the issue can be resolved. If it can’t and the worker is at fault, she’ll end up on shit jobs for the duration of her stay.

According to Diana, this issue is entirely her boss’s fault. Diana slept with the woman’s ex, and her boss claimed that was fine, but obviously she’s jealous, and now the bitch is out to get her. I cringe just listening to Diana, because I know there’s more to it. Her boss wouldn’t risk losing her own job over this.

I remember what Dalton said about Diana inventing issues to get my attention. I’m uncomfortable with that because, in a weird way, it feels vain—thinking our friendship is that important. In my gut, I suspect the answer is far less flattering to me. I have been her rock, the one who is always there for her. The guaranteed friend. The one who has to stick by, because Diana knows what I did to Blaine. She’s never threatened to tell anyone, but …

Oh, hell, I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe Dalton’s low opinion of her is colouring my own. And considering what I’m currently wondering about him, he should be the last person whose opinion I consider.

We never get around to talking about Dalton. I give Diana support and commiseration and then, after dinner, I go home to bed.


I wake to a pebble ricocheting off my cheek, scramble up, and peer down to see Dalton in the moonlight.

“Hey!” I call, my voice tight with anger. “Can’t you knock?”

“You wouldn’t hear me. And I didn’t want to yell up to you and disturb the neighbours.”

“So you threw rocks at me?”

“Pebbles.” He pauses and tilts his head, as if realizing this may not have been the best move. “I need to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“No, tonight. I was going to wait, but I know you’re mad at me, and I’ve had a few beers, and I’ve decided I need answers tonight.”

“And if what I want is sleep, that’s too bad?”

That head-tilt, working this out, his brain fuzzy—a guy not accustomed to more than a beer or two at a sitting.

“I’d really like to talk,” he says. “Just five minutes, and you can come into work an hour late.”

“That doesn’t help when I’m too busy to come in late.”

He pauses, thinking hard, and I know I sound pissy. I’m not pissy. I’m scared. Terrified of going down there and buying whatever he sells, because I look at him in the moonlight, that confusion and worry on his face, his usual swagger gone, as he tries to figure out how to placate me, seeming a little bit lost. I want to tell him it’s okay. Brush aside my fears and go with my gut.

“Five minutes?” he says. “Please? I know you’re angry, and I can’t figure out what I’ve done, and I need you to tell me so I can fix it.”

Damn it, Eric, don’t do this.

“I’m not angry,” I say.

His voice firms. “Don’t pull that shit with me, Casey. You’ve been distant since yesterday, and by this afternoon you could barely stand the sight of me. I need to know what I’ve done wrong.”

I hesitate and then say, “Hold on. I’m coming down.”


He’s still on my back porch. The cross fox is out, prowling, and Dalton’s gaze flicks to it and then back at me, like a schoolboy trying hard not to be distracted when he knows he’s in trouble.

“It’s about the case,” I say.

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“About Abbygail.”

He nods, his expression neutral but his shoulders tightening as if he’s bracing himself.

“The night of her birthday party, you were seen behind the community hall with her.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck,” and he closes his eyes, swaying slightly, and I want to grab him and shake him and say, No.

Do not do this, Eric. Do not tell me it’s true. Or if it is true, give me an excuse. Don’t stand there with your eyes closed looking like you’re about to throw up, because that tells a very different story. One I do not want to hear.

“Eric?” I say.

“I—” His eyes open, and in them I see panic. Panic and guilt. Such incredible guilt. “We—It—”

He looks off to the side. At the fox and then away again.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” I say.

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I will. I just … It’s …”

He swallows and looks around for an escape hatch. He spots the back door and heads for it, throwing it open and walking inside, and I want to yell, Hey! That’s my house! but I know there’s no subtext in the intrusion. He wants to take this conversation inside, and so he does.

When I walk in, though, I see he wants something very different. He has my tequila bottle in hand, and he’s pulling a mug off the shelf.

“I don’t think you need that,” I say.