“I will. Thank you. Oh, and while I have you here, can I ask something completely unrelated?”

He manages a smile. “I would be very happy to talk about anything unrelated.”

“I know. Thanks. It’s about Eric. It’s kind of personal, but, well, you worked with him, and you know him, and … It’s about his, uh, dating habits.”

Mick had tensed when I said “personal.” But now he relaxes with a chuckle.

“If you’re asking if he’s seeing anyone, the answer is no.”

“But he does … date, right?”

“You mean one-nighters? Not in Rockton. Too many complications now that he’s sheriff.”

“When you say ‘not in Rockton’ …”

“I don’t pry into his personal business, but obviously I don’t want you to get the idea he doesn’t date or doesn’t date women, because I think you should go for it. You’d be good for him. So from what I understand, he has one-nighters when he’s down south. Here, though? According to Isabel, it’s been years since he had a relationship.”

“It went bad?”

“You mean did he get his heart broken? Nah. It was just a casual thing that was less casual to her. She wanted him to go down south when her term was up. He refused. Iz says it got kind of ugly, and kind of public. I don’t blame him for taking a break and getting whatever he needs off-campus, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. Thanks.”

Two

I avoid Dalton for the rest of the day. I need to process everything I’ve heard and continue investigating and draw conclusions, and I cannot do that with the man himself in front of me, because if he is, I’ll dismiss it all.

Steering clear of him is tougher when I’m back at the station, and every time I duck his notice, I can see his radar honing in on me. As soon as my shift ends, I take off. Bad headache. See you in the morning.

On the way home, Diana hails me and I don’t brush her off. This business with Dalton has me off balance, feeling uncomfortable in a place I’d embraced only days ago. Diana is my link to my other life, and right now I need that. She’s thrilled to see me and seems to sense I need her, because she insists on me staying for dinner.

I agree, planning to use the opportunity to talk to her about Dalton. She’s another of his non-supporters, and she doesn’t know him as well as the others do, but I want to get her take on him.

Except, as it turns out, she didn’t insist on dinner because she could tell I needed a friend. She needs one. She’s having trouble at work, and her boss is threatening to fire her. That’s no light matter here. Job disputes go before a committee to see if the issue can be resolved. If it can’t and the worker is at fault, she’ll end up on shit jobs for the duration of her stay.

According to Diana, this issue is entirely her boss’s fault. Diana slept with the woman’s ex, and her boss claimed that was fine, but obviously she’s jealous, and now the bitch is out to get her. I cringe just listening to Diana, because I know there’s more to it. Her boss wouldn’t risk losing her own job over this.

I remember what Dalton said about Diana inventing issues to get my attention. I’m uncomfortable with that because, in a weird way, it feels vain—thinking our friendship is that important. In my gut, I suspect the answer is far less flattering to me. I have been her rock, the one who is always there for her. The guaranteed friend. The one who has to stick by, because Diana knows what I did to Blaine. She’s never threatened to tell anyone, but …

Oh, hell, I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe Dalton’s low opinion of her is colouring my own. And considering what I’m currently wondering about him, he should be the last person whose opinion I consider.

We never get around to talking about Dalton. I give Diana support and commiseration and then, after dinner, I go home to bed.

I wake to a pebble ricocheting off my cheek, scramble up, and peer down to see Dalton in the moonlight.

“Hey!” I call, my voice tight with anger. “Can’t you knock?”

“You wouldn’t hear me. And I didn’t want to yell up to you and disturb the neighbours.”

“So you threw rocks at me?”

“Pebbles.” He pauses and tilts his head, as if realizing this may not have been the best move. “I need to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“No, tonight. I was going to wait, but I know you’re mad at me, and I’ve had a few beers, and I’ve decided I need answers tonight.”

“And if what I want is sleep, that’s too bad?”

That head-tilt, working this out, his brain fuzzy—a guy not accustomed to more than a beer or two at a sitting.

“I’d really like to talk,” he says. “Just five minutes, and you can come into work an hour late.”

“That doesn’t help when I’m too busy to come in late.”

He pauses, thinking hard, and I know I sound pissy. I’m not pissy. I’m scared. Terrified of going down there and buying whatever he sells, because I look at him in the moonlight, that confusion and worry on his face, his usual swagger gone, as he tries to figure out how to placate me, seeming a little bit lost. I want to tell him it’s okay. Brush aside my fears and go with my gut.

“Five minutes?” he says. “Please? I know you’re angry, and I can’t figure out what I’ve done, and I need you to tell me so I can fix it.”