We’re lying on the floor, naked. Or mostly naked, because given the speed, we didn’t quite manage to get our clothing all the way off. My shirt is still hooked around one elbow and I’m pretty sure he only bothered getting one leg out of his jeans. But despite the practically nonexistent foreplay, he made up for it where it counted, and damn … I’m stretched out, happy and sated, and he’s looking down at me, grinning, obviously very pleased with himself, and when I say so, he chuckles and says, “I just liked hearing you say my name.”
“You mean saying your name while I’m coming.”
“Uh-huh.”
I laugh, and he tugs my shirt the rest of the way off and shoves it aside. Then he pulls me against him and says, “Didn’t think I had a shot.”
“With what?”
“You. Didn’t like me very much.”
“You didn’t think much of me, either.”
“Only because I didn’t know you.”
“Ditto.” I shift, getting comfortable against his chest. “I think that’s better, though. If it’s at first sight, what does that mean? Other than that you appreciate what you see? Better to fall for someone once you get to know him.”
“So you fell for me?”
His grin returns, and he looks so pleased with himself that I can’t resist poking him a little with, “I’m speaking hypothetically. If you fall for someone, it’s better if you get to know them first.”
I’m teasing, and my tone should give it away, but there’s this flash in his eyes, dismay and uncertainty, and he goes still, searching my gaze with that look I know so well, except there’s more to it this time. There’s worry and there’s fear, as he hunts for something specific, not certain he’ll find it.
“When I was in high school,” I say, “girls always talked about falling for guys. I never understood that. I’d meet someone, and I’d like what I saw, and if he liked what he saw, then it was all good. If he didn’t, no big deal—plenty of other guys out there.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods, but there’s this new look in his eyes, one that wants me to stop talking, just please stop talking, because explaining only makes it worse.
“Then, when I got older, friends would talk about more than just girlish crushes and infatuation. They’d talk about really falling for a guy. Meeting someone and it clicks and he’s exactly what they want and if they don’t win him—don’t ever have a chance—they’ll never quite get over it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I never knew what they meant. I just didn’t get it, you know?”
“Uh-huh.”
I lean over, put my lips to his ear, whisper, “I get it now,” and pull him into a kiss.
* * *
It’s later. Significantly later. That zero-to-sixty first time seems to have been enthusiasm rather than preference, and I get a much slower second time around, one that makes me very grateful for those women who’d taken the time to tutor him.
Now we’re lying on the floor, still in Dalton’s living room. The evening chill has settled, and when I shiver against him, he rises, saying, “I’ll get the fire going.”
I shake my head. “I’ll start it after you leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” he says, as he crouches naked in front of the fireplace, which is already prepped and ready to light.
I rise on my elbows. “Will’s coming by—”
“And I’ll tell him I changed my mind.” He lights the fire and returns to lie down with me. “I want to stay here. With you. I can look in the morning, before we leave.”
“As much as I’d love to say yes—please—you’ll regret it if you don’t look tonight.”
He makes a face but doesn’t argue. We lie there a little longer, but when the knock comes at the door, he says, “Yeah, okay.” He starts to rise, then says, “You’ll stay here?”
I nod. He passes me my clothes, and I dress. Then I send him into the kitchen to get something to eat while I answer the door.
When Anders comes in, he says, “How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine.” I glance over my shoulder at the kitchen and lower my voice. “Eric’s a little distracted tonight.”
Anders chuckles. “I bet he is.”
“It’s not that. He’ll talk to you, and you’ll understand more then, but just … just know that he’s not himself. Not as focused as he usually is. I’d appreciate it if you’d…”
“Watch out for him?”
“Please.”
“Always.”
We talk for a few minutes. Then Dalton comes out with a sandwich in each hand. He holds one out to me. When I try to refuse, he pushes it into my hand with, “Take. Eat. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, when you’ve done that, go upstairs, get in bed, and stay there until I’m back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Anders shakes his head. “Damn, that never works for me.”
“It’s all in how you say it,” Dalton replies.
I laugh, tell them good-bye, and then take my duffel and my sandwich back into the living room to enjoy the fire while I eat.
* * *
As I eat, I take Mick’s file and start reading the page Isabel added on him. Dalton said Mick got caught up in dirty cop business and tried to play it straight. That, it seems, is not the whole story. While it is true Mick had to get the hell out of Dodge—or, in this case, Vancouver—when he refused to play ball with guys on his task force, it seems the trouble went a few steps further. Mick’s partner had also refused the payoffs. The drug guys had caught up with him and killed him. Then Mick tracked them down and killed them.
So Mick wasn’t just a cop. He was a cop with a taste for vigilante justice. And two of our victims are in his files, as killers who escaped justice by buying their way into Rockton.
Isabel thought he’d been keeping notes for Dalton. She’s partly right. These are Dalton’s notes—the same ones I read in his journal. But there’s no way Dalton let Mick in on his secret crusade, and he certainly wouldn’t have allowed Mick to keep a copy of his notes.
Mick must have found out about the journal when he’d been working under Dalton and known where he kept it. They’re a little out of date, and he’s added extra notations, as if he’d been investigating on his own. Bartending is exactly the kind of job that makes it easy to learn other people’s secrets.
I work methodically, reading each page. Dalton will be in the forest for hours. I’m in no rush, the fire is blazing, his couch is comfortable, and I’ve made a hot chocolate chaser for my sandwich.
The last page in Mick’s file is for a guy named Calvin James. He’s the only one Dalton didn’t have in his book, which means this must be Mick’s own detective work. James was a soldier who walked into his commanding officer’s bedroom and shot him dead while he slept. Then he walked out … and shot and wounded two other men. He disappeared while being transferred to a military jail Stateside.
I read that page three times. Then I set it aside, and I stare at the fire, and I tell myself that I should be ashamed of the conclusions I’m drawing.
Mine was in the military. Killed someone who didn’t deserve to die.
When the door flies open, I’m still staring into that fire. I keep staring as footsteps pound across the floor, even as I hear Anders say, “Casey?”
I turn, and I look at him, and that’s all I can do. I look, and I tell myself I’m wrong. I must be wrong, but I can’t stop thinking it.
“Casey?”
It takes a moment to rise out of my thoughts, and when I do, I see Anders—really see him—sweat streaming down his face, his eyes round.
“It’s Eric,” he says. “I lost him. We were out there, and we were sticking together, and then—I don’t even know how it happened. I stepped away for a second to take a piss, and I barely even turned my back and—”
“And he’s gone,” I say, and my voice is an odd monotone. “You lost him.”
His brow furrows. “Right. Did … did you take something? For the pain?”
“Yes,” I say, in that same hollow voice.
He exhales hard. “Okay, okay. So you’re a little out of it. But I need you to come with me. Can you do that?”
“Go into the forest with you.”
“Right.”
“To look for Eric.”
He swears under his breath. “Shit, you’re really out of it.”
“Just take me to him.”
“I don’t know where—”
“Take me to him.”
He nods and grabs my coat. I put it on and follow him out.