“Roofied?” Dalton says.

“Rohypnol,” Beth says. “It’s a sedative that can induce anterograde amnesia. But I don’t have it in the pharmacy, and there was no evidence of anything except rydex in her bloodstream.”

“Then it’s the drugs,” Diana says.

“Rydex doesn’t render you unconscious,” Beth says. “But it can cause blackouts and memory loss. Which doesn’t mean that you aren’t responsible for your actions. Only that you honestly don’t remember—”

Diana flies at her, catching us all off guard. I recover first, just as she grabs Beth, and I pull her off.

“Did you hear her?” Diana says. “Telling me I might have killed Mick and forgotten it. She’s a cold, sanctimonious bitch. I didn’t kill anyone. You know that, Casey.” Before I can open my mouth, she spins to me. “I did not kill—”

“I never said you did, Di. You need to let me investigate, and for that, I must be as dispassionate as possible.”

“God, no wonder you two get along so well. You’re like robots. I’m accused of murder and—”

“Stop.” That’s Dalton. He gets to his feet.

“You stay out—”

“No, you shut your damn mouth, Diana. Because if you’re accusing Casey of not caring about you, I’ll ask you to remember why she’s here in Rockton.”

“You asshole—”

“Diana,” I say. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m accused of murder, Casey. Murder. I’m not going to be framed by some fucked-up psycho sheriff. Ouch!” She jumps and turns to see Beth there, holding a syringe. A drop of blood soaks through the sleeve of Diana’s shirt.

“You bitch!” she says.

“You’re overwrought,” Beth says. “A result of the lingering rydex, I suspect. You should get some sleep.”

Diana makes a move to go after her, but it must have been a hefty dose, and she’s already weaving. I help her back into bed, and she seems to have forgotten what she was doing and lets me. As I pull up the sheets, she clasps my hand and slurs, “I didn’t kill Mick, Casey. I swear I didn’t.” Then she drops off to sleep.

We get a full update from Beth back at the clinic. She hasn’t had time to autopsy Mick, but the manner of his death seems clear. Six stab wounds to the back, most of them shallow but a few shoved in with enough force to do the fatal damage. She’ll run a tox screen. His eyes and breath, though, suggest he hadn’t been drinking or using last night. She suspects he was attacked from behind, possibly as he was sleeping. By the time he woke up, his attacker would have done enough damage that he’d have been unable to escape or adequately defend himself.

Stabs to the back. Attacked while asleep. Any theory that Diana acted in self-defence is disintegrating fast.

“Sleeping in the shed would suggest sex in the shed,” I say. “Were there signs of that?”

She nods. “Signs of protected sex—seminal fluid but not vaginal. I’ll be examining Diana to see if there are signs with her. Presuming Mick used a condom, it’ll be tougher to tell. I’ll mainly be looking for any suggestion of non-consensual sex, as Eric asked.”

I glance at Dalton, but he’s busy across the room on his radio. Rape is one possible reason why Diana might have attacked Mick in his sleep. Dalton is giving her the benefit of the doubt. Which is more than she’s ever given him.

Beth talks a bit more about her findings. Mick’s clothing had definitely been soaked in kerosene, as our noses told us. There are no signs of restraint. He’d almost certainly been dead from his wounds before he was placed by that woodpile. His body and clothing did show signs he’d been dragged. Probably not far, but with the fire, we’d have no way to confirm that.

“In other words, there’s nothing to suggest that a woman Diana’s size couldn’t have committed this crime,” I say.

“No. Also …” She looks toward Dalton, who’s still talking to Anders.

“Go on,” I say.

“There are cuts on Diana’s fingers.”

“Defensive wounds?”

“No. They’re on the side of her palms.”

She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t have to.

“Consistent with her pushing in a knife and having her hand slip and nick the blade.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Casey. I wish I could give you something to suggest she was framed.”

“But you can’t.”

She shakes her head.

Eight

Dalton is walking me home when someone calls, “Detective Butler!” and I tense, recognizing that voice.

Dalton turns, saying, “No, Isabel.”

“I’d like to speak to—”

“Casey has not slept. She needs—”

“It’s okay,” I say. I turn to face Isabel. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I mean it even more when I get a good look at her. She’s not wearing makeup and she’s still dressed from yesterday, her clothing dishevelled and stained as if she’s spilled coffee or a drink. I remember how Mick talked about her. Not a guy looking for a sugar mama. A guy in love. In Isabel’s face, I see proof that the love went both ways.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I can assure you we’re putting everything we can into finding his killer—”