“You went overboard with Hastings. Mick was already uncomfortable with what you two did to Irene and Powy, but Hastings was pure sadism. Mick wanted out. He even pointed me squarely in Hastings’s direction. And I made the mistake of telling you that he’d fingered Hastings as the guy who left the berries. Mick became a liability, so you killed him, conveniently framing Diana, in hopes that might get me out of Rockton bloodlessly.”

“You can’t prove—”

“Right. I can’t.” I waggle the gun. “But I’m holding your beloved Eric’s life hostage, so you’re going to give me what I want. Then I’ll let you save Eric, because I don’t want him to die—I’m just willing to let it happen.”

“You’re just as bad as them. A killer—”

“And I deserve to die, blah-blah-blah. Time’s ticking, doc.”

Her face mottles. “They did deserve to die. I didn’t need to fabricate a story to get Mick’s co-operation. I told him the truth. How Irene came to me for dental surgery two weeks after Abbygail vanished. I dosed her up with diazepam, which made her very talkative. And there was something in particular she wanted to talk about. Confess, I think. Like your friend, Diana. Except in Irene’s case, she confessed to Abbygail’s murder.”

“So Irene and Powys did kill—?”

“Hastings had a thing for Abbygail. He’d hit on her when they worked together in the clinic, but she’d have nothing to do with him. As for Powys, he didn’t give a damn about a twenty-one-year-old girl. What mattered to him was the rydex. Hastings was getting cold feet, knowing Eric was on to him. So to secure his help with the drugs, Powys promised him Abbygail. Irene lured her out into the forest. Hastings raped her. It seems he expected her to ‘come around’ then, she’d see how wonderful it was and how wonderful he was. That didn’t happen, shockingly. Powys knew it wouldn’t. He wasn’t securing Hastings’s help with the rydex by giving him a girl. He secured it by making him a murderer. Abbygail vowed Eric and Mick would hunt Hastings to the ends of the earth for assaulting her, and Powys pushed Hastings until he lost it and strangled her. Then they chopped up her body and scattered it for predators.”

I stand there, shocked into silence. It takes a moment for me to find my voice, and when I do, I say, “You switched out Irene’s X-rays to make it seem like she was here under false pretences, too. To help me draw the conclusion that I was chasing a vigilante eliminating killers.”

“Which you were. So, detective, do you agree they had it coming?”

“Irene? Powys? Hastings? Maybe. But Mick?” I look her in the eyes. “Absolutely not.”

She blanches. Then her face hardens. “I’d made a mistake letting him in on it, and I had to correct that mistake.”

“Correct that mistake? You made him a party to brutal, sadistic murders because he was grieving for a girl he loved. Then you murdered him when he regretted it.”

“Mick was weak. That is where I made a mistake. He didn’t like what we did to Powys. I knew he wouldn’t help me with Hastings if he knew what I planned. So I did my surgery, knocked Hastings out, and put him in that bag. Mick thought he was already dead when he hauled him up in that tree. When he found out otherwise, I had to admit I’d made a mistake letting him help me.”

“So you killed him to protect yourself. Then you planned to frame Diana and let her die in that fire for no reason other than that it would give me a reason to leave town. When that failed, you remembered Irene’s accidental confession and the rumours you’d heard about Diana. You doped her up and got her to confess to even more than you bargained for. But still I wouldn’t leave. I ran into that forest … and into Jacob, the pistol you’d cocked to fire. Perfect timing … and yet I survived, and with Eric playing nursemaid, you couldn’t even make sure I died from unforeseen complications. Still, you could frame Jacob for the murders. Another innocent party whose guilt would doubly help you—blame him for the crimes and get him out of Eric’s life so he’d be free to go south with you.”

“You don’t understand anything,” she snarls.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I think we’ll let the council decide.” I turn and call, “You get that, sheriff?”

Dalton walks out from a clump of trees. He’s pale and pressing his blood-soaked shirt to his shoulder. But he’s on his feet, walking toward Beth, and she falls back, blinking hard.

“Eric? You … you …”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” I say. “I lied. Someone else isn’t doing quite so well, though. Will’s been shot.”

“And you’re going to fix him,” Dalton says. “Or I’ll shoot you before Casey can.”

Thirteen

And that’s it. Well, no. It’s not. When we talk to the council, Beth tries to retract her confession. That’s when I bring up the trap left in the clearing with Hastings’s body. I accuse her of trying to hurt Dalton, and she can’t resist that bait, saying it must have already been there, defending herself and thereby trapping herself.

By morning, the council has sent a plane to pick her up. Apparently, they don’t trust Dalton to get her out of Rockton alive. After that? Well, I don’t give a shit what happens to her after that. I cannot forgive her for what she did to Mick, to Jacob, to Diana, and, however inadvertently, to Dalton. And there’s hurt there, too, and I’ll let myself acknowledge that. She’d become a friend, and I do not understand what she did. I do not.