You can’t shut us down because the problem isn’t resolved.
We have a new murder to investigate, one that could have significantly larger implications, and if you shut us down, the killer will escape justice.
They think—
No, they don’t “think” anything. They know better. They’re simply implying it.
Implying that we killed Jolene.
Killed her to stall the closing of Rockton.
I weigh my options and realize none will save me here. If I figure out what Tamara means, is that because we actually killed her? If I don’t figure it out, am I just playing dumb when the answer is obvious?
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say carefully. “I think you’re implying that we hung that sign on Jolene, which makes no sense if Phil relayed my suggestion correctly. We don’t want the sign to be made public. Therefore, why would we have written it in the first place?”
“Because the sign isn’t for the town, Detective Butler. It’s for us. Clumsy ‘proof’ that the cases are connected. Also, there are members of the council who fear Sheriff Dalton would go farther than simply crafting a sign.”
“Eric?” My voice rises in genuine outrage as I sputter. “What are you suggesting? That Eric murdered her?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t Sheriff Dalton. While some on the council fear that his passion for Rockton might lead to an eruption of his temper, others argue that it would not be him. He might be fully committed to Rockton; other residents are fully committed to him. Loyal to him. Others who have taken lives in the past.”
“If you’re implying that Will would—”
“No, that wasn’t our candidate, though now that you’ve mentioned it, we should consider him, too.”
Fucking hell. Think before you speak, Casey. There are land mines everywhere.
“Okay,” I say. “So who…”
A chill that ripples along my spine. Think. Take two seconds and think.
“Wait,” I say, my voice slow and even. “If you’re implying that I would kill for Eric because I have in the past, I would like to point out that I shot a known murderer who was an eminent threat to Eric’s life. I shot someone to save him. This is not the same.”
“That is not what we meant, Detective Butler, though now that you’ve mentioned it, we should also keep that in mind. You have killed for Eric Dalton.”
She’s enjoying this. Whatever Phil’s faults when he sat on the other end of this line, I never got the feeling he enjoyed making our lives hell. Just doing his job. The equivalent, as I’ve said, of an AI mediator.
Tamara is different. There is glee in her voice, as much as she tries to mask it. She doesn’t know me. She has no reason to wish me ill. Yet she enjoys making me squirm. Enjoys laying out the land mines and watching her blindfolded victim stumble into one after another.
“Can we cut through the bullshit, Tamara?” I say. “You have something to say, and you’re beating around the bush when I have a murder to investigate and a town to shut down. Just tell me what you’re getting at here.”
“What I’m getting at is that you came to Rockton to avoid being charged for a murder you committed.”
“What?” I knew this was where she was heading, but I still inject proper outrage into my voice. It helps that she’s mangling her facts, and I don’t need to manufacture my entire reaction.
“Uh, I have no idea what they told you,” I say, “but I came here because I was being accused of a boyfriend’s murder. The guy died when we were in university, and his mobbed-up grandfather apparently decided I did it—ten years after the fact—and sent his goons after me. As it turned out, that was a setup. I was tricked into coming to Rockton, believing I was being falsely accused of murder. The key word there is falsely.”
“If you say so,” she murmurs.
To my surprise, I laugh. I’ll be pleased about that for a long time to come, like those rare moments where you actually manage the perfect comeback. The laugh is genuine because she’s grasping at straws here. We’ve gone through days of residents being subtly and openly accused of vague crimes. Hell, Conrad got himself buried alive doing it to Brandon. This is the same.
Yes, I killed Blaine Saratori. No, she doesn’t know that for a fact. Can’t know it.
Yet even as I laugh, a little voice warns me to be careful. She may be bluffing, but there is a real threat here.
“I did not murder my college boyfriend,” I say, “and I did not murder Jolene. I’m fine with shutting down Rockton. We all are.”
Now she’s the one who laughs.
“Believe what you want,” I say, “on all counts. We have an actual murder here, and I need to know what the council wants me to do about it.”
“Nothing, Detective Butler. They want you to do nothing.”
“I’m supposed to tell people Jolene was murdered, and we don’t care?”
“No, you will tell them that she suffered a fatal accident in the forest. She went for a walk and was attacked by wild animals or fell into a gorge or whatever works for you. Make up your own story.”
“It’s going to need to be a helluva story, given that everyone I interviewed yesterday says she hasn’t set foot in the forest since she arrived, and she planned to leave without ever doing so.”
“Then you will have a creative challenge ahead of you. For those who know the truth, convince them to keep quiet. If you fail, then when you leave Rockton—and you will be leaving—you can expect to be arrested for the murder of Blaine Saratori.”
THIRTY
Phil came back as I was finishing the call. I couldn’t speak to him. Just asked him to please tell everyone who knows about Jolene to keep quiet about her murder until I can talk to them. They were already doing so. This is just a precaution.
From there, I go straight to Dalton, who’s in the police station waiting for me.
“I need you to come home,” I say as I walk in.
He’s on his feet in a second, and with Storm trailing after us. Once we’re home, with the doors locked and the windows all shut, I tell him what the council threatened.
I expect a profane outburst. I want that. Instead, he stares at me in shock and then sinks into the sofa cushions.
“Fuck,” he says.
My heart hammers double time.
“They can’t know,” I say. “Right? I never admitted to it. I played it as a false accusation that could ruin my career.”
He nods. “That’s what I was told.”
“But you suspected otherwise. Right from the start.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth.
I lower myself beside him on the sofa. “You always knew the truth.”
“Suspected,” he says. “But I’m a paranoid son of a bitch who already knew they let in killers. I hadn’t made up my mind about you. Nothing the council told me suggested you actually did it.”
“Because they wouldn’t say that. Not to you. You aren’t supposed to know they let in real criminals.”
He says nothing because there’s nothing to say. Nothing to dispute this. After a moment, he turns to me.