I try to think of a way to phrase an explanation that won’t sound condescending. There isn’t one, so I just say, “A tablet is like an oversized cellphone that doesn’t make phone calls. The bigger screen means it’s a lot easier to browse the Internet. And not being a phone, it’s usually cheaper than one.”

“I’ve seen people on the plane with them. Wondered what the hell they were. I don’t …” He shrugs. “Don’t take commercial flights that often.”

“Makes sense.” I manage a smile. “Believe me, you’re not missing anything—”

“Stop.” His voice is low, the word barely more than a grunt.

“I’m just—”

“Will told you about me. I get it. Now drop it. I don’t appreciate being made to feel like a freak, detective.”

“I would never—”

“But you’re curious. Everyone’s curious. What’s it like to grow up someplace like this? To never leave? Don’t you want to leave? Do you know how to drive a car? Have you ever been to a movie theatre? No, really, tell me, what’s it like?” He meets my gaze. “I’m not an anthropological study, detective, and I can’t tell you what it’s like because I have nothing to compare it to.”

“I get that, and I won’t pretend I don’t think it’s interesting, but I wouldn’t pry. The only thing your background means to me is that you’re the best source of information on this town. Right?”

A pause, like he’s itching to argue. Then, “Yeah.”

“About the tablet, then. I think that would help. I brought cash—yes, I know, that’s not allowed, but I still did. Either I can tell you what to get or you can take me on the next trip. Which is me offering to help, not angling for a day pass. Either way, a tablet would be easy to smuggle and would let you do research whenever you have access to an open wireless router.”

He agrees that makes sense, and we move back to the subject of the murders.

I say, “The near amputation of hands with Irene and amputation of legs with Powys suggests the same killer. The question is whether their romantic connection is significant.”

“Powys dated about a dozen women here.”

“So, not overly significant. What about drugs? Powys had a medical background and Hastings was a chemist. Did you suspect both of being involved with rydex?”

“I considered it, but they didn’t move in the same circles. Also, one of the reasons I knew Powys’s backstory was a lie was that Beth says he knew shit about pharmaceuticals.”

“Maybe Irene and Hastings, then? Her tox screen showed she was high when she died.”

“Yeah, but there were no signs of long-term use. My theory is that she was doped before she was killed. That’s not in the file because I’ve put nothing in it that could get my ass kicked out of Rockton.”

He rubs a hand over his beard shadow, the skritch of it filling the silence. “I’ve made it pretty damn clear I don’t like to talk about my background, about me being from here, but I’m going to say this once, and only because you need to understand the stakes. The council knows I don’t want to leave Rockton. Wouldn’t know what to do with myself down south. I don’t have a proper education. I don’t have proper ID. I don’t exist outside Rockton, and I don’t know how to exist outside Rockton. If I wanted to, I could figure it out. But I don’t want to.”

“This is your home.”

“It is, and I hate that they can hold it over my head, but I’m a fucking lousy actor. I’ve tried. A year before Will got here, I started saying maybe I wanted to try living down south. They got me solid ID and began interviewing local replacements.”

“They called your bluff.”

“Yeah, and I folded. So that’s where we stand.”

“How will that affect my investigation? Are they dead set on covering up the murders?”

“No, it’s not …” He makes a face and leans back. “The council ruled Irene a suicide because she left a note. It’s not so much covering it up as turning a blind eye. But they also let me bring you in. I’ve told them how Powys died and they aren’t trying to rule it as death by misadventure. If you make the connection to Irene?” He shrugged. “Well, you’re a detective. You figured it out. I’m just the hick sheriff who didn’t.”

Six

I’m on the trail of Abbygail Kemp. That isn’t easy. Dalton’s not the only one who feels as if he failed her. Beth can barely talk about it. We’re in the clinic, and she’s trying to distract herself by cleaning up while I ask questions, but the memories rattle her so badly, she slices her finger on a scalpel.

She winces as she dabs it. “Sorry. It’s just …” She tries hard for a smile. “Not a subject I ought to discuss while handling sharp objects.”

“I understand. The sheriff says you still have her things. Do you mind if I take a look?”

She silently leads me next door to her home. It’s nearly identical to mine except there’s a futon in the living room.

“That’s where she stayed,” Beth says. “During the drug withdrawal, she couldn’t live on her own. Later, we gave her an apartment, but …” She tugs her gaze away from the futon and says, a little gruffly, “She’d gotten used to it here. We’d gotten used to each other.” A few moments’ pause. “Now, I have an appointment at the clinic in a few minutes, so I need to run. Her things are under there.” She points at the futon. “If it helps to take the bag, go ahead. I don’t … I don’t know what to do with it. Standard procedure is to throw out belongings. I can’t do that. So …”