“Yep.”

“I got Diana home fine, but I wanted to talk to Casey—”

“About Diana?”

“Well, yes. About what she said and—”

“She doesn’t want to talk about Diana.”

“Right. Okay. I get that. Does she, um …” Anders’s voice lowers. “Does she not want to talk to me?”

“She never said that.”

“Did she, uh, say anything? About what Diana said? Me and her, and …”

Anders trails off and Dalton seems to wait for more, then says, “Nope. Nothing. Talk to her in the morning.”

I could go out and say no, that’s fine, and invite Anders in. But I really don’t want to discuss Diana. So I pretend not to hear them and take mugs from the cupboard.

“Right,” Anders says after a moment. “Okay. So … see you tomorrow, I guess.”

Dalton says goodbye and shuts the door.

Ten

We’re in my living room, and damn, I’m content. Even bordering on happy. I shouldn’t be. Since I arrived in Rockton, I’ve felt like I’m on one of those playground rides that spins as fast as the other kids can run, and at first it’s exhilarating, but then you just want to get the hell off, and no one will let you, and when it finally stops, you’re left lurching around, trying not to puke in the sandbox. Then, just as the ground seemed to be levelling today, I was sucker-punched by my best friend—the whole damn reason I stepped on the ride in the first place.

Maybe it’s just a question of balance and juxtaposition. Compared with that merry-go-round hell, being curled up on the sofa in my own house, in front of a roaring fire, with a hot coffee in hand and a warm blanket pulled over me, I almost want to cry from relief. The world has stopped spinning, if only for a few moments.

Dalton is still here. I can’t see him—I’m staring at the fire and he’s in the chair to my left, out of sight. But I can hear his measured breathing, and it only adds to the calm, like a steady heartbeat. Maybe that helps, too, that I’m not alone. That someone is here who expects, at least for the moment, nothing from me. Not even conversation.

After a while, Dalton shifts, his jeans scratching against the fabric of the chair. We’ve hit the limit of silence, and something must be said before it turns awkward.

I look over at him first, and he’s gazing into the fire, not noticing that I’ve turned, so I watch him, the light flickering over his face. So deep in thought that I resist speaking until he stretches his legs, shifting again, the silence chafing.

“Can I ask you something about the case?” I say. “Or are you off duty?”

“I’m never off duty. Not a whole lot else to talk about. Weather maybe? It’s getting cold. It’ll keep getting colder. Then it’ll snow.”

“Good to know,” I say with a smile.

“I could ask what you think of the Jays’ chances at the Super Bowl.”

I laugh softly. “The Jays play baseball. The Super Bowl is football—and it’s American.”

“Huh. There goes that idea. Better stick to work. Go ahead.”

“If I asked you for your background notes on Irene Prosser—why she was here—can I get them?”

“No notes.” He taps his head. “It’s all up here. The council tells me people’s stories as part of the vetting process. That’s a bylaw. Doesn’t mean I’m allowed to write them down. That would be a breach of confidentiality. Also, they presume I’m not bright enough to actually remember. Irene was here for the same reason Diana and almost half the women are.”

“Fleeing an abusive situation.”

“The women are mostly running from bad choices in men. The men are mostly running from bad choices in life.”

He tells me Irene’s story. Like Diana, she was escaping an abusive ex whose stalking turned to violence and death threats. From I love you and can’t live without you to If I can’t have you, no one will. Chilling in its predictability.

“Do you have any idea the sort of injuries she suffered?” I ask.

“She had what your friend didn’t—a long medical record of obvious abuse, complete with X-rays of broken bones.”

“Not every kind of abuse results in broken bones, sheriff, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”

“I’m not saying your friend wasn’t abused by her ex. Nor am I saying you padded her application. I’m just …” He trails off and then straightens. “Back to Irene.”

“Thank you.”

“There were broken bones. Maybe a half-dozen hospital reports. I can’t recall details, but it was a clearly documented case of physical abuse.”

There are a few moments of silence after that, and it is awkward now. Finally, he rises and takes his empty mug into the kitchen. I follow a moment later to see him, not preparing to leave, but pouring another half cup. He takes it to the window and looks out.

I’ve had enough coffee, but I join him in gazing into the night, and the silence softens until he says, “You’ve got a fox.”

I look toward the carving Brent gave me, where it sits on my table.

“No,” he says. “A real one.”

He motions me to the window and reaches back to extinguish the lantern. Moonlight streams in. He points, and it takes me a minute, but slowly I make out the shape of a canine the size of a spaniel, half emerged from a fallen log. Then it steps out.