"Yet you know who did. Who would do . . . ? Wait. Don't answer. Let me guess. Could it be . . . your stepfather?"
Brady jerks forward. Dalton's gun barrel slams into his temple. Brady reels. Dalton catches him by the arm and presses his gun against the young man's forehead.
"You gonna call Casey a lousy detective now?" Dalton says.
"So you figured out Greg is the real killer," Brady says. "Fine. Now you see--"
"I see you're a desperate man," I say. "Desperate enough to accuse your own stepfather of the crimes you committed."
A string of obscenities follows, his face contorting with rage. "This is exactly what I knew would happen. See? See?"
As his voice rises, I say, "Do you want that gag? Or do you want the chance to keep talking?"
"Why bother? This is how it is. How it will always be. You want me to play nice, Detective?" He leans toward me. "I don't know how. Never learned the skill. Or maybe I lack the genes. You look at me, and you see a spoiled brat. Self-centered. Entitled. An unpleasant son of a bitch. And you know what? You aren't wrong."
He eases back. "I'm an asshole. But that doesn't make me a killer. I'm probably not a good person. But that doesn't make me evil. I don't think that's such a difficult concept for you to understand, Detective. You're a stone-cold bitch. Doesn't mean you aren't good at your job. Doesn't mean you don't care about your people. The sheriff here doesn't bat an eye when you threaten me, and it doesn't stop him from looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass."
He locks gazes with me. "I am responsible for your mountain-man friend's death. Court of law would lock me up for manslaughter. I accept that. I am also responsible for Val's death. I promised you'd get her back, and you didn't. But those murders back home? Those were committed by a guy who makes me look like a saint."
"Gregory Wallace."
"You liked him, didn't you? Of course you did. Everyone does. Let me guess how it went. He showed up, apologized for all the trouble he put you through, promised to compensate you for it, while being clear he knows money won't fix this. Am I close?"
Brady doesn't wait for an answer. "I know I am. I know him. He was charming and gracious and humble. Probably confided in you, too, Detective. He wouldn't bother with the sheriff. He decided you were the brains of the operation. The moral compass, too, he'd presume, because he's a sexist asshole, and you know the problem with being a sociopath? You're so busy acting your role that you can't see through the performances of others. He bought the sheriff's redneck routine and your quiet-but-thoughtful one. Am I right? Did he confess to you? Admit he made mistakes? Of course he did."
I say nothing.
Brady continues, "I bet he volunteered to help search for me. Insisted on it. He feels so bad about the situation that he wants to help find me. Take the risks alongside you two. The truth? He doesn't trust you. He wanted to be there when you caught me, to make sure you brought me in and maybe use the opportunity to stage a tragic accident."
"Yeah," Dalton says. "That explains why he offered to stay behind as hostage. In Casey's place."
"Because that guaranteed you'd turn me over to those savages."
"Except he escaped," I say.
Brady finally goes silent. At least a minute passes.
"Can't explain that away?" Dalton says.
"No, Sheriff, I can't. I could speculate that he overheard something that made him think he might not survive the exchange. But that's speculation. I only know something happened in that camp, and he decided he'd overstayed his welcome. I bet he took out a few of the locals on his way, too."
"Actually, no," I say. "He hurt a woman, but he left her alive and made his escape."
"Okay, that makes sense. It's hard to keep pretending you're a good guy if--"
"Down!" Dalton shouts.
He falls onto me and, for a moment, I think he's been hit. Then I realize he's pinning me down. There's a shot. Then Storm lets out a yelp of pain.
57
My dog has been shot. There's a sniper in the trees, and Storm has been shot. I try to scramble up, but Dalton holds me fast, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Casey."
I fight the urge to snarl at him. To get free of him. To get to her.
I dig my fingers into the ground to hold myself still, and I listen, as hard as I can. After a moment, I hear a labored pant, each breath ending in a whimper.
She's been shot.