“Do they need to be made?” I say, as gently as I can. “I know there’s damage. Hell, I know all about damage. But Eric’s is a different kind. I’m not convinced it’s something that needs to be fixed. I think it just needs to be understood.”

“He can’t live this way forever, Casey, stuck up in this town, a thousand miles from everything. It’s not natural.”

“It is for him. He’s happy—”

“No, he’s convinced himself he’s happy. He could do so much more. Be so much more.”

I bite my tongue because I can see I’m not going to change her mind. I remember Dalton talking about women from his past trying to “fix” him, and while he’s never been romantically involved with Beth, the dynamics are the same, and that saddens me, because I expected better of her.

No, that’s not fair. She’s a doctor, and it’s her job to fix people. She just doesn’t see that this problem doesn’t need mending, and I can’t tell her so because that would be incredibly egotistical of me—the newcomer who claims to better understand a man Beth has known for years.

So I say, “Maybe. I don’t know. Right now, though, there’s something else I’d like to speak to you about.”

I ask her about schizophrenia. I stick to my hypotheticals. Beth might know about Dalton’s past, but there’d be no reason to mention Jacob in those files.

Unfortunately, Beth doesn’t know much about the condition. Less than I do, it seems. She’s a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist. I make a note that I’ll need to bite the bullet and speak to Isabel instead.

“Do you know anything about ergot poisoning?” I ask next.

She frowns. “I believe it’s connected to a fungus that can infect rye.”

“Right. It’s one of the possible explanations for the hysteria surrounding the Salem witch trials.”

I somehow manage to say this as if I know exactly what I’m talking about. Because, you know, in my old life, I devoted myself to expanding my knowledge of the world, chasing any esoteric tidbit that interested me. Sadly, no … That would be Dalton, the guy who reads about ancient Mongols in his spare time.

Dalton had suggested this theory. Not ergot poisoning specifically, because there’s no rye growing here. But he’d wondered if some environmental poison could be responsible for Jacob’s sudden and violent personality shift.

Dalton had listed off a half-dozen things in the forest that could cause mental confusion and hallucinations. Beth knows nothing about any of them. I’ll add this to the items for Dalton to research when he takes Diana to Dawson City.

We talk for a little longer. The subject of Dalton doesn’t resurface, and I’m relieved. I value Beth as a friend, and by the time she leaves, I feel that’s been put aside, at least for now.

Dalton brings breakfast. He can’t stay long. We’re sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard.

“Fucking council wants me to get my ass to Dawson City.”

“To escort Diana.”

“Yeah.” His tone softens as he looks at me. “About that … how are you doing?”

“Trying very hard not to think about it.”

He nods, and I know what he’s thinking, so I say it for him. “I need to talk to her, don’t I? Try for some closure.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll do it before you leave.”

“Before we leave. You’re coming with me. I told the council you have more to research. They agreed to postpone the trip until this afternoon, and then we’ll stay overnight in Dawson City. At the inn. Where no one can barge in the goddamn door.”

“Ah, so that’s your real plan. Not that you value my research skills. You just want sex.”

“Damn straight.”

He tugs me onto his lap. I turn to straddle him, and he smiles and says, “Even better,” and pulls me into a kiss. It takes less than thirty seconds to get both of us shirtless, him fumbling with my bra before giving up and pushing it over my head, and then his hands are on my breasts and damn, that feels—

A distant knock sounds on the front door.

“Ignore it,” Dalton says, still kissing me.

“Planning to.”

I get the button open on his jeans and I’m pulling down the zipper when, “Detective Butler?” It’s my next interview.

Dalton whips my bedside book and knocks my bedroom door shut. I chuckle.

“Casey?” the voice calls from downstairs. “Are you okay?”

“God-fucking-damn—”

I cut Dalton’s curse short with a kiss. I start to roll off him, and he tries to grab me back, but I whisper, “Dawson City. One private room. Eight uninterrupted hours,” as footsteps sound on the stairs.

“Casey?”

“Just a sec!” I call.

Dalton grabs me and tugs me back onto him. “He’ll wait five minutes.”

“Kinda want more than five minutes, sheriff.”

He gives an abashed, “Yeah, sorry. Fuck.”

He rolls off the bed, gives me a quick smack of a kiss, and then grabs his shirt and walks out, still pulling it on, to the sputtered apologies of whoever is in the hall. I wince and shake my head. Apparently we aren’t keeping this a secret from anyone.

I put my bra and shirt on, then call, “Come in,” and start my morning of interviews.

Eight

I have three interviews scheduled and two additional people show up, not with anything significant to add, but trying to be helpful, and I don’t want to discourage that. When Dalton brings lunch, I’m talking to someone who recalls seeing Mick the night of his death. She spotted him walking toward the woodshed. Yeah, like I said, not useful, but I listen and thank her for her time as Dalton waits impatiently outside the door.