He waits for me to argue. When I don't, he shifts on the bed and faces me. "It happened when we were kids, like you said. By the time I saw him again, we were teenagers, and I tried to bring him to Rockton, but he wasn't interested, and maybe I should have dragged his ass in here and--"
He stops, breathing so fast he can't continue. He grips the bedspread, closes his eyes, and then continues, a little calmer. "The point is that he's always been welcome here, but he's not interested, and I respect that. As for what he blames me for ... Yeah, I was a kid, and I made a mistake, and I thought I was doing the right thing, and..." He shakes it off. "Doesn't matter. He does blame me for the separation. But it's not like what you saw out there. He's not like that. Even the smell..."
"He might not have access to hot showers, but he usually takes better care of himself."
"Much better. Sure, we argue sometimes. About him being out there and me being here. But it's arguing--not swearing revenge and threatening to kill--"
That fast breathing again. Anxiety and panic, and though I've never seen him like this, I recognize the signs. This is territory he avoids, like I avoid the subject of my past. It's the trigger that flips the switch from the hard-ass sheriff to the boy who lost his younger brother to the forest and hasn't ever gotten over it.
"We argue," he says. "That's it, and not even much of that."
"You have contact with him. Like you said before."
He nods. "Plenty of contact. Social and otherwise. He trades meat and furs for things he can't get easily, like clothing and weapons. Maybe it's not exactly a normal relationship for brothers, but ... fuck if I know what is." He makes a face, frustration mingled with embarrassment. He's right, of course. Anything he knows about sibling relationships comes from books. There's none of that in Rockton. Another reminder of how different his life is, and how very aware he is of that difference.
"It is what it is," he says. "And it's not like what you saw today. At all."
"When's the last time you talked to him?"
"Two days before you got here. He seemed fine. After we found Powys, I went out to speak to him, see if he knew anything, but he wasn't around. You heard Brent. That worried me, but then you spotted him when we went caving, so ... I figured he was fine."
"He seemed okay the last time you talked with him?"
"Fuck, yeah."
"Taking care of himself?"
"Of course."
"How old is he?"
"Three years younger than me. Why?"
I tell him what I'm thinking. Schizophrenia. Early adulthood onset, the sudden paranoia, the lack of interest in personal grooming. Dalton's well read enough to know what it is.
"I don't know if it can come on that fast," I say. "But it might have been a more gradual deterioration than it seems. I mean, he kept himself clean enough, but..."
"Yeah, living out there, the standards are different."
"And the fact that he chooses to live out there..."
"No," he says abruptly. "It may seem crazy to you, but it's a choice, and not a sign--" A sharp shake of his head, and he loses a little of his usual confidence, faltering as he says, "If I had any idea ... I would have warned you..." He gets to his feet. "I'll take care of this. You're safe here, and you should get some sleep."
"I don't want--"
"Sleep," he says, and lowers himself into the chair. "I'm not going anywhere. We can talk later."
I stir from sleep, but not for long enough even to roll over and see if it's light out. I hear Dalton arguing with someone and think situation normal.
Then I remember it's far from normal as the last day floods back. Mick's death and the arson and the fact my best friend may have done both and she betrayed me and now she has to leave, but then there was the forest and that kiss and then Jacob and a glimpse of another Eric Dalton, a side of him that I need to understand if I ever want to get closer to him, and that kiss, and dear God, am I actually even thinking about that, in light of everything that happened?
It's not as if a kiss somehow cancels out the horror and the pain, but it's easier to focus on, and I keep thinking of a poem I memorized in school, and I don't even remember why, but it wasn't an assignment. I think it just spoke to me, somehow.
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get