“What?” He shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing. Not even close. Yeah, I’m not going to lie, saying Storm is a work dog was mostly an excuse. I gave her to you because you wanted a dog. But starter baby? Hell, no. Do couples actually do that shit down south?”
“I have no idea.” I pull my legs up under me. “What I really wanted to talk about, though, wasn’t whether you intended Storm as a baby trial run, but to just … discuss it. We’re living together. We’re in a committed relationship. Petra suggested it’s better to have the baby conversation sooner rather than later. She’s right. Especially in this case.” I take a deep breath. “I can’t have kids.”
He nods. “Sure. I get that. If you don’t want kids, you don’t want them, and no one should try to change your mind.”
“No, I mean I can’t have them.”
He looks at me, and under that look, I feel my tears prickle. This is another of those things in my life that I deal with through avoidance. Just don’t think about. Now I have to. And it hurts.
“The attack,” I say. “The damage. I can’t…”
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t getting it. Just wasn’t getting it. I’m so sorry. Fucking stupid.”
“You’re never stupid.” I kiss him and say, “Also, for the record? I love you.”
He hugs me tight, and we sit like that for a while. Then I say, “We could try. Not now, obviously. But at some point, we could, if that’s what you wanted. The doctor says there’s a chance I could get pregnant. It’s a very slim chance, though, so I just tell myself I can’t. That makes it easier.”
He hugs me again, saying nothing for a few minutes, and then, “Having kids has never been one of my goals. I always figured it wouldn’t happen, and I’m fine with that. But thank you for telling me.”
I manage a wry smile. “Saves us from a really awkward conversation later?”
His arms tighten. “No, I’d just want to know. Whatever you’re dealing with, I want to know.”
FORTY-SEVEN
We don’t hear from Val the next morning. Am I hoping to? Yes. I want her to call us in and tell us she’s made a horrible mistake. I want that for the town—for Val to step up and be a true leader. And, yes, I want it for Dalton, one less force he’s working against.
But she stays in her house, blinds pulled. When I comment to Dalton, he shrugs it off, like he expects no better and he won’t let Val spoil his mood today. He is in a good one. Calm, more secure in his footing, getting back to himself. When Jen stops by to collect her militia credits, her snarky jabs bounce off him. He just hands her the credits and tells her if she wants more militia work, talk to Anders.
A late night means an equally late start to our day. That may have had something to do with forgetting to set the alarm. By the time I’ve finished writing up my report from last night and helping Dalton with a few minor issues, it’s early afternoon.
I find Mathias in the community hall weight room. It’s a popular spot in Rockton, not unlike in a prison complex. People living in relative confinement with few entertainment options often decide to use the time for self-improvement. The library and weight room get a lot of use. Today, though, it’s empty except for Mathias, bench-pressing an impressive amount.
“You do realize you’d be a lot scarier if you did this in front of an actual audience,” I say.
“That would promote entirely the wrong image,” he says, still lifting. “A strong man may be intimidating, but the truly frightening one is the man who can kill without lifting a finger.”
“Like with hypnosis?” I settle on the bench opposite him. “Yes. I know why you’re here. It’s need to know. I needed to know.”
“He did not die.”
“In retrospect, I bet you wish he did.”
Mathias sits up and reaches for his towel. “I do not regret needing to come to Rockton. I do regret the lives he took in his quest for misguided revenge. Hypnosis to make a man cut off his own genitals?” He shakes his head. “If such a power existed, why would the world need soldiers? Simply brainwash the enemy into killing themselves.”
“So brainwashing Rockton residents to turn them into hostiles would be a nonstarter.”
“And the detective deftly swings the conversation onto the desired topic, having spent exactly the required amount of time on small talk, so the subject does not feel undervalued on a personal level.”
“One, you aren’t a subject. Two, talking about brainwashing a man into castrating himself is no one’s idea of small talk.”
“I wouldn’t say no one’s…”
“You want small talk? Let’s discuss the fact that you are violating…”
I point over his head. Dalton posted a notice saying Use of the bench press or squat rack without a spotter is strictly prohibited. Someone had altered the handwritten sign to read Use of the fucking bench press or the fucking squat rack without a fucking spotter is punishable by one week of chopping duty during fucking blackfly season.
“Eric and I have an arrangement,” Mathias says. “If I die pinned under the weights, it is my own fucking fault.” He pauses. “Or was that goddamn fault?”
“So, hostiles. You’ve read the reports.”
“I have.”