City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

"Until she disappeared," I say. "By walking into the forest."

An abrupt nod. "That night, I stayed out until dawn patrolling, and then I put extra militia on during the day. But she came by the station and apologized. She said she'd been drunk and made a stupid mistake with the kiss, and she didn't really mean all those things she said. She apologized for threatening to go into the forest. She was angry with herself for saying I treat her like a child and then acting like one. Two nights later, she walked into the forest, and I wasn't paying attention anymore, and someone else must have been. Someone followed her and..." His voice breaks. "I fucked up."

This is the Eric Dalton I know. This is the story that makes sense, and the anguish in his face tells me it's true. All except one part. That Abbygail went into the forest to spite him. There is nothing in the girl I've come to know that suggests she'd do that. Lash out and threaten to in drunken anger and humiliation? Yes. But she was mature enough to regret that the next day and apologize. She wouldn't do that and then take off.

Why did Abbygail go into the forest the night she disappeared? Only now do I realize that my sleeping brain really did figure it out, in a way. I dreamed that Dalton lured her in. What if someone else did, in his name? A note perhaps. And Abbygail, still smarting from his rejection, couldn't help but hope he'd reconsidered. That he'd taken time and realized he did have deeper feelings for her.

Come to the forest at midnight, Abby. Meet me by the big birch tree. I need to talk to you.

Streetwise Abbygail would only walk into those woods for one person. The guy she hoped would, one day, invite her there.

I don't tell Dalton what I think. I can't, because he'll still take responsibility. Instead, I say, "I don't think she'd do that."

He doesn't answer. Just reaches for the bottle.

"That won't help," I say.

"Sure as hell feels like it w

ill."

He lets me take it from him, though, and slumps into a chair.

"So there's my drunken confession," he says. "Proof of exactly how incompetent your boss is."

"Bullshit, Eric. You're not incompetent. You just don't trust me to investigate."

"What?" He looks over, eyes struggling to focus.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He closes his eyes and slouches. "Fuck."

"That's not an answer."

He reaches up and scratches his cheek, and opens his eyes, as if startled when he doesn't feel the familiar beard shadow. He's still shaving. For the trip, and then the memorial service, and now ... well, I don't know why.

He straightens. "I felt guilty and I didn't want to tell anyone what happened and I thought there was no reason to. Not unless I worried you'd find out and think I--" He looks over at me sharply. "Unless you'd think I killed her."

"I have to consider it," I say. "For anyone."

He goes still. Then he says, "Right. Of course." He runs his hand through his hair. "I knew you'd have to include me in the suspects, but I didn't put that together with Abbygail and that night, because, well, I didn't kill her, so I never made the connection and..."

"You thought you didn't count."

He nods and slumps in his chair. "I told myself it didn't matter. I just didn't want ... I knew how it looked ... I figured I blame myself enough that it's not like I need anyone else to point out that I fucked up."

"You only fucked up in not telling me, Eric."

We fade into silence. Finally he looks toward the steps. "I've kept you longer than five minutes."

I could say yes, and he'll go, but there's that look in his eyes, the same one he had the night I stitched him up, when he was hoping I'd give him an excuse to avoid going back to that oppressive house with Beth. Now he faces an equally oppressive one in his own empty house. Alone with his thoughts, like me in that cavern. Alone in the darkness.

"I have homemade herbal tea," I say. "A gift from the greenhouse folks, for solving the tomato case. I haven't actually worked up the nerve to try it. But if you're willing to be my guinea pig..."

The faintest tweak of his lips, not nearly a smile. "I am."

"Then you start the fire and the kettle. I'll grab a sweater and blankets, and we'll sit on the deck."