First, I talk to the doctor—Beth, as she insists—and get her full autopsy report. The next step would be to re-interview those connected to his disappearance—who saw him the night he took off, who might have played some role. But I have a different idea I want to pursue first.

I spend most of the afternoon reading through files on other homicides and disappearances. There aren’t many … if I don’t remind myself exactly how small this town is. When I do, that small stack makes Rockton the Bermuda Triangle of the North. Most of it, though, can be chalked up to the situation. We come here because we’ve either done bad shit or we’ve got serious baggage. The fact that almost everyone survives their stay and goes home again is actually remarkable. But every year one or two won’t be going back. Some wander off into the woods. Some die by homicide or misadventure. And some commit suicide.

That’s what Irene Prosser’s death is filed under. I read it three times to make sure I’m not missing anything. Then I wait for Sheriff Dalton to return. At five, he walks straight through, coffee already in hand. I follow him onto the deck.

“Busy,” he grunts.

“Irene Prosser.” I slap the file on the railing. “Suicide? She was found in a water cistern. With both wrists cut to the bone.”

“We don’t have bathtubs.”

“Excuse me?”

He speaks slower. “Most people who cut their wrists do it in a tub because it’s less painful, apparently.”

“Less painful? Her hands were practically cut off.”

“She left a note in her handwriting.”

“Presumably written before she nearly amputated her own hands?”

He shrugs and stares into the forest. I walk into his line of sight.

“You’re not stupid, sheriff, and I don’t think you’re corrupt, so what the hell is going on here?”

“I ruled the death a murder.”

I ease back. “Okay.”

“Beth thinks the killer intended to hack off Irene’s hands, but the blade wasn’t sharp enough. The killer then realized it could look like a suicide and faked Irene’s handwriting. Any idiot can see it’s not suicide. The council disagreed. So I am not allowed to officially investigate.”

“Officially. Meaning you have investigated.”

“If I had, it would be on my own time and any notes would be kept in my home, because if the council found out, they’d give me their usual threat—to stick my ass on a plane down south. One way.”

I want to ask why that’s such a big deal. Then I remember what Anders said—that Dalton was born here and doesn’t intend to leave. I’m guessing that’s how the council keeps him in line. Threatens to kick him out, because he has no right to stay.

“Irene was Harry Powys’s ex-girlfriend,” I say. “She died two weeks before he went missing.”

Dalton takes a gulp of his coffee.

I continue. “You didn’t randomly decide you’d like a detective on staff. You already needed one. This is why I’m here, and you just stood back and let me figure it out for myself.”

“No,” he says. “I had one woman dead, presumably homicide. Another woman went missing seven weeks ago. Then Powys disappeared. I’ve wanted a detective for a while. Your file just hit our desk at the right time.”

“Missing woman?”

“Abbygail Kemp.”

I choke back a growl of frustration. “Were you going to tell me about her? Or just wait until I figured it out? If you want to test my detection skills, amuse yourself by making me figure out which horse is yours.”

He turns cold grey eyes on me. “What you and I are doing right now, Butler? It’s not about proving you’re a detective. It’s about proving I can trust you. Because you came along at a helluva convenient time.”

I pause. “You think I’m, what, a plant? Spying on you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. What’s the adage? It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you?” He puts down his coffee. “The council expects one thing from me, detective: blind obedience. I don’t provide it, so they want me gone. The problem? There are still people around who financed this town in the early days. Permanent stakeholders. They want me here, and unless the council can prove I’m incompetent, I stay. So, yeah, I’m suspicious.”

“I’d like the file on Abbygail Kemp.”

“Inside. Second cabinet. Second drawer.”

“I also want your notes on everyone you think the council smuggled in.”

He looks up at me. “I don’t keep—”

“Bullshit. If you don’t want to show me, okay. We’ll just discuss them.”

“It won’t help.”

“Of course it—”

He gets to his feet. “Abbygail’s file is inside. For the rest? Start from scratch.” He heads for the door.

“I’m not asking for a hand up. I’m asking for the opinion of the person who knows this town better than—”

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone on the porch.

Four

An hour later, Dalton’s on the deck again, having done … Honestly, I have no goddamn idea what he was doing.

He settles into his chair, and I walk out there, Abbygail’s file in hand.

“Read it?” he grunted.

“Nope.” I dump the file on his lap. “I will, but first you’re going to tell me about the case.”