“You did stop.”

“Only after you said it twice and pushed me away. I heard you the first time, and I don’t know why I didn’t stop.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, yeah, I know. I was pretending I didn’t hear in case you didn’t mean it, and if you did mean it, then you’d say it again, only you shouldn’t need to say it again and …” He exhales. “I fucked up, Casey. I really fucked up, and all I can say is that I’m sorry, and it’ll never happen again.”

I’m quiet for a moment, considering my words, then say, carefully, “I did reciprocate, Eric. You’re the one who didn’t want it.”

“I—”

“Twice you said—very clearly—that you didn’t want it. I’m not going to have sex with a guy who’ll regret it ten minutes later. I’m especially not going to have sex with my boss if he’ll regret it ten minutes later.”

He frowns, and I can see he’s honestly working through why that would be a bigger problem.

“Oh,” he says after a moment. “Yeah, I guess … I hadn’t thought—Fuck, I wasn’t thinking at all.”

“You were stressed, and that was the outlet. I understand.”

“I … No, it wasn’t …” He’s working this through, too, furiously. I’m suddenly exhausted, and I want to say, Go, Eric. Just go.

“Regardless of why you kissed me,” I say, “I didn’t have a problem with it. I didn’t have a problem with it taking a second no to stop you. At that speed, it’s harder to throw on the brakes. I did have a problem with you walking off because I thought you just got pissy at me saying no. If that’s isn’t the case—”

“It’s not. At all. I was angry with myself—”

“Then I accept that, and I’d like to move on. My next interview should be here any second.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he blurts. “When I said I didn’t, I …” More hands-through-hair. Then hands-shoved-in-pockets. “What I meant is that as much as I wanted what we were doing, I know we shouldn’t. It’s just a really bad idea for you and me to start something, and yeah, maybe that wasn’t starting something for you, maybe it was just sex, but it was different for me and—” He exhales hard. “Shit. Stop babbling. Okay. The point is that even if you were interested, there’s a lot of crap in my life, and you don’t need to share that.”

Silence ticks past as I mentally vacillate between saying what I want to say and keeping my mouth shut.

Mentally vacillate? Hell, no. That makes it sound so calm and reasoned. My brain swirls, half of it screaming at me to do it, just do it, stop being such a wimp and take the leap, and the other half screaming at me to keep my mouth shut, don’t go there, don’t open myself up.

I raise my gaze to his. “And what if I want to share that?”

A one-second pause. A split second of surprise and something I can’t quite catch. Then he looks away, and I feel that break like a punch. See? See? I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, Casey.

“You tell me I need to go after what I want,” I say. “But this isn’t about what I want, is it? It’s not about whether I’m willing to share your shit. You don’t want to share it.”

“It’s isn’t—”

“My next interview will be here any moment. Please go down and let him in.”

“I—”

“Go, Eric. Now.”

Five

Back to the case. Because there is, you know, despite all the personal drama, there’s still a killer to be found. Possibly two.

I already know Kenny had seen both Mick and a woman matching Diana’s description heading into the woodshed. I question him thoroughly, but there’s little more to get than that. One other person saw Mick heading toward that side of town. Another saw Diana. Again, not terribly useful, though I do glean a few more details. First, Mick and Diana were not seen together. Second, the witness who saw Diana definitely spotted her alone, meaning no one forced her there.

I continue interviewing people all day, but I don’t get much farther. I confirm that Diana had been with the people she’d claimed to be with. She’d left at the time she’d claimed to leave. She’d been alone. She’d been seen heading in the direction she’d indicated, also alone. As for Mick, those at the Roc that night had seen it play out as Isabel claimed—Mick left at eleven, about an hour after they disappeared into the backroom together.

Dalton stays downstairs during my interviews. Whenever he has to leave, Anders stops by, and I suspect that’s no accident. Dalton isn’t taking chances. There’s a killer in town and so his injured detective is under full-time guard.

When my interviews are done, I nap. I have to—I’m still exhausted. I dream of the forest and of Jacob, and even asleep, my mind works the case. It’s possible that paranoid delusions drove Jacob to kill Abbygail, Powys, and Hastings in the forest. Irene could be a separate case, like Mick. But Abbygail died two months ago, and Dalton says Jacob was fine a few weeks ago.

I’m thinking of that and then dream I’m back in the forest, Jacob with the knife at my throat, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, and my eyes open, and I see his grey eyes right above mine, and I lash out, right hook catching him in the jaw, the left in the gut, and he falls onto me … onto the bed with me, and I realize it’s not Jacob I’ve hit. It’s Dalton.