“Yep,” I say. “It was before you got here and, presumably, it will be when you leave. Did you read that waiver before you handed over your money, Mr. Lang? Or were you in too big a hurry to get up here?”

He glares at me. “Yes, I read it, but yes, I was in a hurry. If you’ve read my medical file, then I’m sure you’ve read the rest, too. If you want to mock me for it, go ahead and get it out of your system, detective.”

“Because you came here fleeing an abusive relationship? Why would I mock that?”

His mouth tightens. He means that he expects mockery because he’s a man fleeing abuse. Which makes no difference to me. Or it wouldn’t, if that’s what he was really here for.

“Do you really need the fluvoxamine up here?” I say. “I’d think Rockton would be the perfect solution to your problem. No little girls anywhere.”

“What?” he squeaks, indignation surging. “My problem is anxiety and depression.”

“Fluvoxamine is an SSRI. A selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. Used to treat pedophiles by inhibiting sexual desire and fantasy.”

He loses it then. Rants and rages at me. It’s true that the drug is most commonly used for depression. But according to what Dalton found, my reason for the prescription is the right one.

Pierre Lang has a long history of minor convictions, pleading guilty to misdemeanours and getting wristslaps. Then he kidnapped and raped a girl on the cusp of adolescence. While awaiting trial, he disappeared, apparently having bought his way into Rockton.

“I could be wrong,” I muse. “I’ll check with the doctor. I was pretty sure, though—”

“You are wrong. And I’m going to report you for … for slander.”

“Slander only counts in a public statement. In private, I can say what I like. Being a detective, it’s my job to speculate. Speaking purely as speculation, I can understand why they might allow a pedophile in, if he paid well enough. Like I said, there’s no temptation here. Well, not unless there’s a girl who looks young for her age, and that pedophile is desperate …”

“I’d like you to leave now,” Lang says.

“I’m sure you would,” says a voice behind me. Dalton walks in and plunks himself down on the sofa as Lang squawks.

“Door was unlocked,” Dalton says.

“Does it matter?”

“Guess not. I have the key.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Lang settles for glaring and pulls himself in, like a bird hunkering down, wings wrapped around itself. He tries to shoot a glare at Dalton, but his gaze doesn’t rise above the sheriff’s collar.

“So …” Dalton sprawls on the sofa, legs out, arms stretched across the back. Establishing territory, taking as much as he can while Lang draws himself ever tighter. “You were saying, Detective Butler?”

I glance over. Dalton meets my gaze, expressionless, but I still catch the message. He overheard my accusation. He’s not stopping me, but he’s here to make sure I don’t give away anything more.

I ask Lang about Abbygail. When’s the last time he saw her? And the first time? And he balks at that one—how would he remember? But he does. I can see that in his eyes. I keep circling, prodding, poking. After about twenty minutes, I close the interview and we leave.

“How much did you hear?” I ask when we’re away from the house.

“Starting at the part about the meds.”

“I overstepped there, didn’t I?”

“Yep.”

As we walk, three people wave at Dalton. Two more call greetings. They don’t seem to even notice that he doesn’t wave or call back.

“I’m not sure how to put aside what I read,” I say. “Am I supposed to?”

Dalton scratches his chin. He walks another three steps. Then he says, “Depends on you, I guess. How you deal with it. How you compartmentalize.”

A woman greets him, and this time he replies, and that makes me look up and see one of the local chefs. In his book, she’s suspected of escaping charges related to befriending girls for a forced-prostitution ring.

I understand what he’s saying. That if I read his journal, I have to compartmentalize. Look at this woman who cooks my meals and forget what she’s been accused of, unless, like Lang, it plays into an investigation.

“Lang did notice Abbygail,” Dalton says as we continue walking. “There was a …” He tilts his head, searching for a word. “Frustration there. Not really an interest. A frustration.”

“Because she was the closest thing here to what he likes. Yet she was an adult woman, which he does not seem to like.”

He nods. “I saw it. Monitored it. Warned Abbygail as best I could. Maybe not enough …” He drifts off for a moment, then comes back with, “She seemed to understand.”

“She would have,” I say. “Being from the streets, she’d have been able to sniff a predator and steer clear.”

“He’s still a suspect,” Dalton says. “I’ve been watching him since she disappeared.”

“Nothing?”

“Yeah.”

He slows, and when I look up, we’re behind the station, at the shed where they store the ATVs.

“Border run?” I say, trying not to betray a spark of excitement. My day could really use this.

“Nah, taking you out visiting. Time to talk to a guy in a cave.”