“Yes. Tea, please. Strong.”
Isabel’s lips twitch. From anyone else, that might have been a joke. Not Val. Strong tea is her equivalent of my tequila shot.
First, I tell them Brady’s story about the shooter in San Jose.
“Bullshit,” Dalton says. “Bullshit to make you do exactly what you’re doing.”
“Wonder if I’ve been misled.”
“Right. He pretends he’s been accused of an entirely different crime, and you start wondering if there are multiple stories going around, which makes it seem like we’re being played.”
That’s the answer I like. I’m not sure it’s the right one, though. I walk them through the rest of the interview.
When I finish, Isabel looks at Mathias. “Well, that was a mistake.”
His brows shoot up.
“You just antagonized a man who viciously murders people for no provocation.”
“Then perhaps, having given him provocation, I have removed myself from danger.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you, Mathias? You are incapable of learning the lesson life has tried to teach you: don’t piss off the psychos.”
“I am stubborn.”
“Stubbornly suicidal.”
From that exchange, I presume Isabel knows why Mathias is here. One of those “psychos” accused Mathias of brainwashing him into emasculating himself and then managed to escape and come after Mathias, leaving dead bodies in his wake. Which should sound as if the innocent psychiatrist was targeted by a delusional psychopath spouting obvious nonsense. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that isn’t actually how it worked. Not with Mathias.
Dalton cuts in. “I’ll side with Mathias on this. Rattling Brady’s cage might not be the worst thing. Get him worked up enough to snap, prove he’s not Mr. Innocent. We just need to make sure his cage is locked tight. And if he does lash out?” Dalton shrugs. “He’s got a target now.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Mathias says. “While I would think my approach is somewhat more nuanced than ‘rattling his cage’—”
Dalton snorts and rolls his eyes at me, but Mathias continues, “—yes, that is part of my approach.”
“Never learned the idiom about honey and vinegar, did you?” Isabel says.
“It doesn’t work for me. Now, if you were to offer Mr. Brady honey, I suspect that would be an entirely different thing. He doesn’t want mine.”
“Should we do that?” Val says. “Should we allow Isabel to handle this instead? Or perhaps not instead, but in conjunction with Dr. Atelier. The honey and the vinegar.”
“I can consult if you truly see the need,” Isabel says. “But if you’re hoping for me to charm and disarm, I suspect I’m twenty years too old for that. Brady seems like a classic narcissist, which implies he’ll have no use for older women—they would not satisfy his self-image. He would only expect to charm me. To disarm me.”
“Then he would prove himself a very poor judge of character,” Mathias says. “Which I believe he is not, as evidenced by the fact that he has not attempted to charm Casey. He knows better. The same would go for you.”
“But what about someone he felt he could charm?” Val says.
“That’s actually a good idea.” I make a face as I hear myself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But we could provide contact with someone we trust. Someone Brady will find an easy dupe. He needs an ally. He needs someone championing his cause and seeding doubt. Maybe even someone he thinks he can con into helping him escape. A woman who will, at least to him, seem ripe for his charm. Lonely. Uncertain. Overlooked.”
Mathias turns to Val. “I do hope you’re volunteering.”
I glare at him.
“What?” he says. “Have you not just described Valerie?” At a harder glare, he deigns to add, “In the sense that Valerie can appear to be all of that.”
“No,” I say.
“He’s right,” Val says. “I wasn’t volunteering but . . .” She looks from me to Isabel, as if searching for an answer there. Then she squares her thin shoulders. “I am perfect for the job. We can even tell him I’m the town leader. That will make him feel as if he warrants special treatment. And he’ll know I have power here, which makes me even more useful to him.”
“Yeah, no,” Dalton says.
“You think I can’t handle it, Sheriff?”
He meets her gaze. “No, I think it’s dangerous.”
“And you think I can’t handle that.”
“No, Val. I think nobody should be put in that position. Don’t pull this bullshit.”
I know what he means. When Val first arrived in Rockton, she’d wanted to join a patrol. Dalton argued against it. She took offense—clearly he was discriminating against her because she was a woman. The council had backed Val . . . and she’d been attacked on that trip. Kidnapped by hostiles and almost certainly sexually assaulted, though she vehemently denies it. The truth is that Dalton has never let anyone—even Anders—into the forest so soon after arriving. But even now, Val hears only “You can’t handle this,” because she’s been hearing variations on that all her life.
“Casey?” she says.
“No,” Isabel says. “Don’t do that, Val.”
“Isabel’s right,” I say. “You’re asking me to intercede with my boss, Val. This is a law enforcement issue. He’s the sheriff.”
I can feel Dalton studying me. Trying to figure out what my answer would be.
“You can still voice an opinion,” Val says, and Isabel makes a noise, low in her throat, a warning that Val ignores.
“You think we should try it,” Dalton says.
“I . . . I would rather not put Val in that situation,” I say.
“In ideal circumstances,” he says. “But under these ones, you think it’s worth a shot.”
I want to say no. Support him. He is my boss, and I never want to undermine his authority. That opens up a situation where residents will act like Phil, coming to me as the calm and reasonable one who can intercede with Dalton. Worse, they’ll come to me as his lover, in hopes that I can use leverage.
So I want to just say Dalton’s right. But he knows that isn’t my answer, and he’ll take more offense at a lie.
“I don’t like the idea,” I say carefully. “But if Val is willing—”
“I am.” She straightens and meets Dalton’s gaze. “I can do this. Whatever you think of me, Eric, I believe I am more, and I’d like the opportunity to prove it.”
He mutters, “Fuck.” It’s like when Nicole asked to join the militia after her ordeal. I wanted to say no. Tell her to take more time. Not to push it. But I understood that need to push. Val is trying to step up. She’s trying to be a valuable member of the community. Unless we are vehemently against her doing this, it’s difficult to deny her that opportunity.
“Fine,” Dalton says. “You have a week. If it doesn’t go anywhere, I’m pulling you out.”
Val wants to start right away. As hard as she fought for this task, once the meeting breaks up, I can tell she’s having second thoughts. Yet when I offer her the chance to change her mind, that only solidifies it. She wants to meet him now. Before she loses her nerve.
Val and I walk into the station, talking town business. I give her some files. As she’s preparing to leave, I ask her to send Kenny in to relieve me for lunch. She goes . . . and returns to say he’s been called off and she’ll stay instead. I hem and haw, but she insists.
I tell her I’ll be back in thirty minutes. I actually do leave—I go for coffee at the bakery—but I’ve warned Kenny to keep an ear on that door.
When I return, it’s with Dalton, and it hasn’t been nearly thirty minutes. She knows to expect that, and when we walk in, she acts surprised, scurrying from the cell room.
“Sheriff,” she says.
“Everything okay?” Dalton slows, his gaze moving from Brady to Val.