He continues. “Even ‘partner’ is a shitty word. Sounds like a business arrangement. The other day, when you said you were my wife, that . . .” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It sounds lame, but that means something to me. We don’t get that in Rockton. My parents—the Daltons—they were a couple, but I’ve never heard them use the vocabulary much. To me, husband or wife means . . .”
He takes his hands out of his pockets and flounders, as if looking for a place to put them, finally settling for taking Storm’s lead in one and my hand in the other.
“My dad always used it,” he says. “My, uh . . .”
“Birth father.”
“Right. In the First Settlement, he used it a lot, and my mom would call him her husband. That was because they were reminding people—warning the men to leave her alone—but I didn’t realize that at the time, so husband and wife, that seemed like their special words. And they were . . .” He shakes his head. “Fuck, they were in love. The kind of stupid, crazy love that makes you run into the forest when someone tries to separate you. Dumb kids. But they made it work, and they were partners—real partners—in everything. I told you Jacob says they died together, in a dispute with hostiles, but I wonder if maybe just one was killed and the other didn’t . . .” His hand clenches mine, reflexively tightening. “Just didn’t try very hard to get out alive after that.”
We walk a couple of steps, and I say softly, “I don’t know much about your parents, but from what Jacob has said, I don’t think they’d have left him alone if they had a choice.”
A moment of silence. Then he nods. “Yeah, you’re right. If one could have made it back, they would have. For him. For their . . .” He swallows. “Fuck.”
His hand grips mine so tight it hurts. Here is the discrepancy he cannot resolve: that the parents who didn’t rescue him from Rockton were not parents who would ever shrug and say, Well, that’s one fewer mouth to feed.
“The point,” he continues, “is that this is important to me. What we are. You and me. One of the best parts is that I don’t have to do this on my own anymore. Yeah, I know, I’ve always had help. But it’s just been that: help. People who listen to me and do what I tell them because they trust my judgment. But fuck, you know what? Half the time I’m not sure I’d listen to me. Now I have you. Someone I can talk to, share with, confide in, ask for advice and, yeah, someone who’ll tell me if I’m full of shit.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So my question is, Casey”—his gaze slides my way—“is that just me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to be that for you, too.”
“You are.”
“Am I? Or am I the junior partner here?”
I look over sharply. “What?”
“The trainee. A promising one, but still new at this detective shit, and not ready to work at your level.”
“What—?”
“I don’t think that’s it. But I like the alternative even less—the feeling that if you’re holding back, it’s not because I haven’t proved myself, but because you want to protect me. I’m a little bit naive. A little bit idealistic. You like that. You want to preserve that. Which might seem fine to you, but I feel patronized. Like I’m years younger than you, not just a couple of months.”
“I—”
“When we got Nicole back, I know Mathias left that asshole in a hole somewhere. Poetic execution. You know it, too, and I’m sure you confronted him. But you kept that from me.”
“No, I did not, Eric. Yes, I confronted Mathias and didn’t tell you—because he wouldn’t admit to anything. If he did, I would tell you. I have to. Not just because you’re my boss, but because keeping it from you would be treating you like a child.”
He relaxes at that. But he has a point, one I’m not going to admit right now. I would have told him if Mathias confessed, and I’m glad he didn’t, because that would have meant Dalton needed to launch a hunt for a man who deserved his horrible fate.
I didn’t push Mathias because I wanted to protect Dalton. And that is wrong. Not wrong to protect him, but wrong if, in protecting him, I’m trying to preserve his innocence, to shield him.
It is patronizing. It’s what you do to your children and, at one time, it was how you treated your wife, presuming she didn’t have the fortitude to face life’s ugly truths. It is not what you do to someone you consider an equal, however good your intentions.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’ve done that, I apologize.”
“So we can stop protecting Eric’s delicate sensibilities?” he says.
I manage a smile. “We can.”
“Good. Then tell me what you were thinking.”
“Thinking . . . ?”
“Right before I came back here and gave you a hard time. What you’ve been thinking all day . . . whenever we haven’t been trying to stay alive, which has been, admittedly, the bulk of our morning and afternoon.”
“It’s only afternoon?”
He shows me his watch. It isn’t even 3 P.M. I curse, and he chuckles.
“I’m working on a theory,” I say.
“Kinda guessed that.”
“It’s not one I like.”
“Yep.”
“If I’ve been keeping it from you, it isn’t to protect your sensibilities. It’s to protect your opinion of my mental health. And maybe your opinion of me.”
“Because if you tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll wonder what kind of fucked-up person even imagines something like that.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me help. Are you wondering whether Harper killed the settlers?”
I blink over at him.
He continues, “She claimed to have seen Brady there but gave little more than what might be extrapolated from our description of him. She was the one found with blood-soaked clothing, explained away by trying to save her grandmother. Then there’s the shredded food pack. If Brady killed the hunting party for their supplies, he’d have taken much better care of that. Instead, it was abandoned and ripped apart by animals. You just don’t want to admit you’re considering her because you’re afraid it reflects badly on you, thinking a kid could do something that horrific.”
He looks over. “So, am I close?”
“Uh, dead on, actually.”
“Good. Proves I’m making progress with this detective thing. And that maybe my view of people is a little more jaded than you’d like to think.”
“Or just that I’m rubbing off on you.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, Detective. I’m pretty sure it’s not possible to have lived my life up here and be completely unaware of what people are capable of doing to each other. I just don’t like to jump to that for the default. Innocent until proven guilty. Good until proven evil. And there’s a huge spectrum between those two poles. What matters is where you want to sit on that spectrum, and where you try to sit if you have a choice. Like when you need to shoot a hostile who’s about to kill me.”
I say nothing.
He glances at me. “You think I don’t know that’s bugging you, too? I’m the one who screwed up back there. I tried to avoid killing that man, and all I did was sentence him to a slow death. They had no chance of crawling back to their camp. No chance of being rescued. No chance of surviving. The sniper who shot that hostile did him more of a favor than I did in trying to just wound him.”
“You—”
“I’m not looking for redemption, Casey. Just stating facts. I learned my lesson. Doesn’t mean I won’t leave someone alive if they can get to help, but I won’t make that mistake again. Either way, I killed a man today, too.”
“Have you ever . . . ?”
“No,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “No, I haven’t.”
We are back in the clearing where the three settlers were massacred. I have watched Brady’s expression the whole way, waiting for the flicker of recognition, of concern, of worry. Why are we returning him here? Is there something we might find that will prove he’s guilty?
He must be guilty, right?
No. That is the hard truth I’ve come to accept. The likelihood that Harper killed these settlers. That Brady’s claim of innocence is correct. At least in this.
As we approach, he gives no sign that he recognizes the location. We enter the clearing, and he’s looking around. Then he’s checking his watch, as if wondering whether we’re stopping for the night.
“Turn around,” I say.