TWENTY-SEVEN
I shouldn’t have gone with Val. Anders and Dalton weren’t exaggerating—I’m beyond exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, each seeming to sap energy from the others. In short, I am in no condition to deal with Val.
We get inside, and she says, “These murders. Do you think they were committed by the same man who took Nicole?”
I open my mouth to give a neutral response and instead say, “Does it matter?”
Val blinks. “What?”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “It matters to me. Huge implications for the investigation. And it matters to the average citizen. Are we looking at a serial pattern here? Or are there multiple monsters preying on Rockton women? But does it matter to you, Val? Does anything? You sit here with the blinds drawn and wait for it to all go away. Wait until you can go away. What even is your purpose here? You’re not the town leader. You’re a glorified telegraph operator … and we barely send a telegraph a week. It’s the worst example of bureaucratic inefficiency in a town that can’t afford any inefficiency.”
She stares at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m tired. Very, very tired. I’ll come back tomorrow and answer your question properly.”
I get up and start for the door.
“Wait,” she says.
I stop, my hand on the doorknob.
“I know what you think of me, Casey, and I would argue that I do much more than operate the satellite radio, but I suspect you know that. You are tired. Tired and frustrated, and perhaps, with me, you have reason to be.”
I stay where I am.
“I would like to hear your thoughts on these crimes,” she says. “If you have a moment.”
I turn to face her. “On the understanding that I may say things I shouldn’t?”
Her lips twitch, just a little. “I believe I already know that.”
I go back to the living room.
“My gut says one perpetrator,” I say as I sit. “But I’m being careful not to jump to that conclusion. I need proof beyond the fact that all three victims were from Rockton and found in that cave system.”
“And the condition of the bodies? Would it … suggest…?”
“Suggest Robyn and Victoria had been held captive, too? It’s hard to tell, given how long they’d been there, but there were signs of prolonged captivity, consistent with what we see in Nicole. I still can’t presume it’s one perpetrator without proof. That would seriously affect my investigation. First, it would mean he couldn’t be from Rockton.”
“Here? Why would he be from here?”
Of all people, she should know, but she seems genuinely shocked, and if I explain, I’ll tumble headfirst into anger again.
“A single perpetrator means the only locals who’ve been here long enough are Eric and Isabel,” I say. “Nicole last saw her captor the day before we rescued her, when Eric was in Dawson City. And her captor was clearly male, so it’s not Isabel. Therefore, one perpetrator would mean an outsider.”
“Which it is. It must be.”
“If it’s not multiple perpetrators, the killer could be someone who is no longer here. Or the captor would be someone still here. That would imply separate cases. More likely, it’d be two perpetrators working together. Mentor and student, their times in Rockton overlapping enough for them to discover their shared interests.”
“It’s not someone from Rockton, Casey. It’s one of them. Out there.” She straightens her blouse. “I realize we have some people here who have committed crimes. But they are not the kind who’d do this. This is, as you said, a monster. Or monsters. We don’t have that here.”
Does she know that for a fact? Or is she toeing the party line?
The first time I met Val, she struck me as classic middle management, from her attire to her demeanor. In many ways, that’s what she is, which means that while she has to know more about Rockton than us mere employees, she may not know the worst of it.
Dalton thinks she knows what we have here—he jokes that’s why she never comes out of her house. But looking at her now, something in her expression tells me she believes what she’s saying. Or she wants to. Desperately wants to.
“You believe it’s hostiles,” I say. “Or settlers.”
“I don’t know why Sheriff Dalton makes the distinction,” she snaps. “They’re all hostiles. No one would choose to live there. No one normal.”
I don’t argue, fearing that, in my exhaustion, I’ll say more than I should about Dalton’s own past.
“At some point,” I say, “I would like to ask you about your experience with them. The hostiles.”
I say it as gently as I can, but she still flinches.
“Not right now,” I add. “But if my investigation swings in that direction, as you think it will, I’ll need as much as I can get on them, from as many angles as possible. Eric says—”
“You’re asking Sheriff Dalton about the hostiles? That’s like asking the pot about the kettle.”