"With Eric."
"So you're here doing paperwork alone while lover boy walks the pooch . . . and we have an allegedly dangerous killer in town?"
"When is the last time you saw us walking the dog during work hours?" I say.
Her jaw sets, like that of a petulant child countered with the indignity of a reasonable response.
"Eric is working," I say. "Storm is with him because she's a work dog."
"Then shouldn't she be here, guarding you?"
"Nah, if this guy escapes, I'll throw you into the line of fire."
Her snort awards me a point for the comeback. I'm trying to work with Jen, no matter how many people tell me it's a waste of time. I must be that idiot who keeps trying to pet the stray cat, knowing I'm just going to end up with bloody scratches. One could see this as a sign of deep compassion and the belief in inherent human goodness. It's not. As Dalton says, I'm just stubborn. Jen is an obstacle I will overcome. Which is not to say I'm winning the battle. We have reached an uneasy truce, though. I champion her continued role in the town militia, and she doesn't address me as "Hey, bitch." At least not in public.
Jen walks to the cell. She's spent her share of time in there, more than anyone else in Rockton. I first saw her at the Roc, Isabel having come by the station for help breaking up a bar brawl. There'd been no brawl. Just Jen, looking like a middle-aged schoolteacher enjoying a glass of wine with her significant other. Then Isabel tried to kick her out--for freelancing on brothel property--and that's when the brawl began.
I later learned that Jen really had been a schoolteacher. She still looks it to me--late thirties, average appearance, nicely groomed. When she walks to that cell, Brady cracks open one eye. He can't help it. He heard her talk--insulting Kenny, snarking at me--and he's looked, expecting to see a rough and bitter woman. Instead, she looks like the schoolteacher she'd once been, and his eye opens a little wider, just to be sure.
"How many?" she says.
I don't need to ask what she means.
"Five," I say.
"And you buy that?"
"I'm sure there's more. There always are."
"That's not--"
"You mean do I think he really did it. I don't give a shit. That's not my job, and after what we've been through, I'm not taking the chance."
"So the council--which I know you don't trust--tells you this preppy-assed brat has murdered five people, and you're just going to believe them?"
Brady's eyelids flicker, and I'm tempted to grab her by the arm and haul her onto the back porch. But it's too late, so I say, "And I'll repeat--I don't give a shit. If he was a citizen of this town, I'd care. He's not. And if I did decide he was innocent, you'd be first in line howling that I was putting your life in danger."
She looks at Brady again. "This just doesn't seem right."
"Well, considering I'd never expect you to agree with any choice I made, I'm not too worried."
Except I am. Jen is my Greek chorus--the voice that will never let me enjoy a moment of hubris. Every choice I make, she questions. So this should not surprise me. Should not concern me. But I expected her to walk in here and tell us we're underreacting, being too lax. When she instead says the opposite, I begin to worry.
6
I'm lying on our living room floor, fire blazing over my head. Dalton sleeps beside me. Storm whines, and I snap out of my thoughts and give a soft whistle that brings her bounding out of the kitchen. When she was a puppy, we'd barricade her in there whenever Dalton
and I needed private time. Now we only need to kiss, and she'll give a jowl-quivering sigh and lumber off to the kitchen and wait for that whistle.
When she bounds in, I signal for her to take the exuberance down a few notches. She creeps over and sniffs Dalton's head, making sure he's asleep. I give her a pat, and she settles in on my other side, pushing as far onto the bearskin rug as she can manage.
As I rub behind her ears, I pick up on her anxiety. She knows something is bothering us, our stress vibrating through the air even now, as Dalton sleeps.
I don't think he has taken an easy breath since Brady arrived. So I may have intentionally worn him out tonight. But I'm wide awake, tangled in my thoughts.
I give Storm one last pat, head into the kitchen, and pull tequila from the cupboard. One shot downed. Then a second. I'm standing there, clutching the counter edge, when I hear a gasp from the living room.
"Casey?"