There are three levels of occupancy here in Rockton. At the top is having your own house. At the bottom is apartment living—bachelor-style apartments. In the middle, you get the full level of a house, which still only nets you about six hundred square feet. Yes, we aren’t exactly living in mansions here. We can’t afford the energy costs or the footprint.

Kenny has a ground floor. Which means it was very easy to sneak out the window while his guard was watching at the front.

And his guard? Jen.

“Which is why you should have put a guy in charge of him,” she says. “Someone who can stand in the bathroom while he takes a shit.”

“Yeah, not even the guys are going to do that,” Dalton says. “But next time someone’s in there that long? Knock. Ask if he needs medical care.”

“He took a book. I knew it was going to be a while.”

“A book from the library?” I say.

“Everyone does it.”

“Which is why I don’t read books from the library,” Dalton says. He stands in the bathroom and looks at the window. “Fuck.”

“Eloquent as always, Sheriff,” Jen says.

“Yeah, well I’m saving time on a lengthy response.” He strides for the door. “Time better spent catching his ass before he rendezvouses with Oliver Brady and gets his fool throat cut.”

* * *

I join the search for a while, with Storm. The problem? Kenny knows what Storm can and cannot do. Which means he runs straight to the nearest stream.

We lead Storm up one side of it for about a kilometer, as far as we figure he could walk in the icy water. Then we take her down the other side and another kilometer in the opposite direction. Either Kenny managed to steal waterproof boots and three pairs of wool socks or Storm misses his exit spot.

Dalton takes her on a wider circle in the area while I return to town. There are a few things I want to check, and with both Dalton and Storm hunting, I really am a third wheel.

I want to look for a note. Even with what seems like an obvious betrayal, I still can’t write Kenny off just yet. I find it much easier to believe he was duped by Brady’s protests of innocence rather than jumping at a huge bribe to help a serial killer. If so . . .

If so, I have an alternate theory for his disappearance. One that paints Kenny in a better light. One that fits better with the man I know.

I find the note in the station. Paul said Kenny came in here earlier, to return a flashlight that he claimed belonged to me.

I find the note in the drawer, along with a spare flashlight.

The note is addressed to me. And when I read it, I discover I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

* * *

Dalton comes home at three in the morning. From the kitchen, I hear the door open, the solid boom-boom of his boots stepping inside and then the skitter and scrape of Storm’s nails as she zips past him. After that double boom, his footsteps go silent. He’s looking for me in the living room. When he doesn’t see me, there’s a sigh, and his boots come off, thumping to the floor.

Steps move into the living room. Not the solid boom of his initial ones. Not even his usual purposeful stride. These are dragging and whispery, socks skimming the hardwood. Then the thud of him collapsing onto the sofa.

He doesn’t hear me come out of the kitchen, and I catch that first unguarded glimpse of him, forearms on his thighs, shoulders bowed, gaze empty as he stares at nothing. The floorboard creaks with my next step, and he looks over and his face lights in a smile.

I know he thought I’d gone to bed, and while he’d never complain about that, yes, he was disappointed. Now he sees me and smiles. Then he gets a whiff of the dinner I’m carrying, and his gaze goes to it.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t cook it,” I say. “Isabel wouldn’t let me.”

He shakes his head.

I take the plates of rewarmed dinner onto the back deck, and we eat in silence.

I wait until he finishes before I say, “Kenny left a note.”

Dalton’s head jerks up at that. Then he snorts and says, “What? Telling us we were fucking idiots for not keeping a closer eye on him?”

Which isn’t what he expects at all. He’s just bracing for the worst. This was a person Dalton trusted. He feels betrayed, and so he wants to believe Kenny was not the man he thought. It makes this easier than any of the alternatives.

Tell me he betrayed us. That he deserves whatever happens to him in that forest.

I hand him the note. As he reads it, I watch him, his cheek twitching, gaze skimming the first time through and then slowing to reread. When he finishes, he crushes the paper and whips it across the back lawn.

“God-fucking-damn-it, no,” he snarls, pushing to his feet. “Is he an idiot? Yes, obviously he fucking is. The biggest goddamn idiot . . .”

Dalton can’t even seem to continue, and he starts pacing instead. Storm scratches at the back door. I’ve left her inside, and I know she’s hurt and confused, certain we’ve accidentally forgotten her, patiently waiting for us to realize our mistake. Now she hears Dalton curse and she scratches, a tentative whine seeping through the wooden door.

Dalton wheels on me. “This is what I need. Exactly what we both need. Because clearly we’re not doing fuck-all here. Hey, why don’t I just take off into the goddamn forest and give you guys something to do. Or maybe no, we won’t chase him because we don’t give a shit. That’s why he had to take off. Catch this murdering asshole himself. Because we aren’t trying. So he’ll do it for us and prove he wasn’t Brady’s accomplice, because otherwise, we’ll just punish him and not bother with a fucking investigation.”

I let Dalton rant. Let him express my own frustration and my fear and my rage. I still recall every word of that note.

Casey,

I’m going to fix this. I’m going to find Brady and bring him back for you. It’s my fault he escaped and killed Val and your friend and those settlers. I didn’t help him. I swear I didn’t. But I’m going to bring him back. I’ll catch him, and he can tell you who was his real accomplice.

I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.

Kenny

“Trouble he’s caused,” Dalton says. “He’s sorry for the fucking trouble he caused, so the best way to fix that is to cause more. Poor Kenny feels guilty. Blames himself. Fucking awesome. Let’s share that blame. Let Jen have some when Kenny dies, for letting him escape. Let you have some for suspecting he was the accomplice. Let me have some for trusting him enough to let him out of that cell. Let’s all take another helping of the fucking blame pie, because it’s clear we haven’t eaten enough of it already.”

He spins on me. “What am I supposed to do here, Casey? I feel like we’re spending this whole damn case searching for people. Brady, Val, Jacob, now Kenny. I tell them not to go into the forest. I regulate every damn step out there until I feel like a paranoid parent. But they keep doing it. They walk out of this town, and they die. Do I need to build a fucking wall? A barbed-wire fence? Post armed guards? Shoot anyone who tries to leave? These are supposed to be responsible adults, but they come here and they act like fucking children, which means we have to be the fucking parents. No, not children. Teenagers. And we’re just obstacles standing between them and whatever shit they want to pull. Well, if that’s the way they want it, then fuck yeah, that’s what they’re getting. Prison guards.”

My gaze flicks from Dalton as I notice something to the side. A figure stands just around the rear corner of our house. Watching Dalton rage. Listening to him rant. Observing and judging.

I get to my feet. “Can I help you, Phil?”

Dalton spins with a “What the fuck?”

“I wished to speak to you both,” Phil says as he walks into the yard.

“It’s almost four A.M.,” I say. “We’re on our own time, and our own property. This is a private conversation.”

“At that volume, no, I don’t think it is.”

There’s more judgment in his voice, and I want to snap at him, but I only say, “Then I’ll repeat that we are on our own time. We’ll speak to you in the morning.”

Phil walks over as if I haven’t spoken. “I take it you didn’t find Kenny?”

“No,” I say, as evenly as I can. “We will resume the search tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Excuse me?” Dalton says.

“I understand you suspected him of being Oliver Brady’s accomplice.”

“We did,” I say. “The evidence fit, but it was all circumstantial. That’s why we let Kenny out of the cell on work duty. If you wish to debate that decision, I’ll suggest it’s unnecessary. We already realize that might not have been wise.”

“I don’t care what choice you made regarding Kenny’s incarceration. My point is that the only reason to pursue him is in hopes he’ll lead you to Oliver. That is unlikely. Oliver has staff, not partners. He conned this man into helping him, and now he will have abandoned him as unnecessary. Otherwise, Kenny would have fled with him. Correct?”

He doesn’t even wait for a response before continuing. “Kenny left because he realized his guilt had been uncovered, and it was only a matter of time—”

“No,” Dalton says.

Phil sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, one I’ve heard countless times underscored by the feedback from a radio receiver. “I know you—”

“He left a note.” Dalton points at the wadded paper on the lawn. “He blames himself for Brady escaping and wants to bring him back. Kenny accepts responsibility because he left his post. Not because he was in cahoots with Brady.”

Another sigh, the sort a supercilious teacher gives a student he considers not terribly bright. “Just because Kenny claims that doesn’t mean it’s true, Sheriff. Of course he’ll defend himself. My point is that he isn’t your concern. He has made his choice. He might hope to find Oliver. Perhaps even kill him, to cover his own crimes. But he’s unlikely to succeed. His flight proves his guilt and therefore, whatever justice the forest metes out . . .” Phil shrugs.

“It saves the council from doing it?” Dalton says.

There’s a warning note in Dalton’s voice, but Phil only says, “Yes, it does. Casey no longer needs to waste time proving his guilt, and you can both focus on Oliver instead. Take this as a reprieve; do not turn it into a cause for extra effort.”

“A reprieve?” Dalton says. “Extra effort? Kenny was a valued member of my militia, and whatever you might think of what he’s done, he deserves my—”

“He deserves nothing. If you feel guilty, take this as an order. You may not search for this man. If you happen to find him, all right. Do what you must.”

“Do what I must?” Dalton says, his voice lowering. “Kill him, you mean?”

“Of course not. Bring him back.”

“If I must. Because, you know, the alternative is to just let him die out there. Which is worse than killing him. And it’s not like, if I bring him back, he’s going to live much longer anyway. Maybe I should just kill him.”

I see where Dalton’s heading, and I try to get his attention and cut him off, but before I can, Phil says, “What are you talking about?”

“Sure, yeah, let’s pretend you don’t know.”

“Eric . . .” I say.

Dalton advances on the other man. “Tell me, Phil, what happens if I bring Kenny back and put him on your plane. What happened to Beth after I dropped her off?”

“Beth Lowry is fine, and to suggest otherwise only proves you are exhausted and need—”

“What if I want her back? We need a doctor. Let’s bring Beth back for a while. Can we do that, Phil?”

“Certainly not. After what she did—”

“Forget about bringing her back. We have medical questions. How about the council hires her for satellite consultations?”

“We cannot—”

“Do you know where she is, Phil?”

“I don’t care, and neither should you. But she is alive. We are not executioners—”

“No? Then tell me about the deal you tried to make with Tyrone Cypher?”

Phil’s face screws up. “Who?”

“The sheriff before Gene Dalton.”

“That is long before my time, as you well know.”

“The council tracked him down in the forest. Tried to cut him a deal. Ty says he knows what it was, because he has one real talent. His former occupation. A hit man.”

Phil bursts into a laugh. “Is that what he told you? I’m sure whatever this Cypher man did in his past life, he was not a hired killer. The council would never put such a man in Rockton.”

“No? Then tell me about Harry Powys.”

“Eric,” I say sharply.

“No, please, Casey,” Phil says. “It seems the sheriff has a few things to get off his chest. If you are suggesting Harry Powys was a hired killer—”

“Worse,” Dalton says. “He was a doctor who drugged illegal immigrants and removed their organs. Sometimes they lived; sometimes they didn’t. Being in the country illegally, though, it wasn’t like they could complain.”

Phil stares at him.

“What Eric means—” I begin.

“Please, Casey. There is no alternative interpretation you can come up with to explain that away, however embarrassing I’m sure you find it.”

I bristle. “I don’t find it—”

“The sheriff’s exposure to our culture is limited largely to his books and videos. Dime-store novels and fantasy television shows.”

“That’s not—”

“And from those, he clearly has a distorted view on the world, one that someone has exploited by feeding him ridiculous stories. Black-market organ sales are the stuff of pulp fiction and urban legend, Sheriff. Whoever told you Harry Powys did such a thing was pulling a prank.”

“Look it up,” Dalton says.

“What?”

“Harrison Powers. That’s his real name. Google it. You’ll find news articles—legitimate news articles—about a doctor suspected of exactly what I said. A warrant was issued for his arrest. He disappeared. Check the dates. Check the photograph. Compare it to Harry Powys.”

Silence. Three long pulses of it. Then Phil says, “Whoever told you they found this online—”

“I found it. I’m not illiterate, you pompous jackass. I can use the fucking internet and read the goddamn evidence, which I verify against alternate sources.”

Dalton steps closer to Phil. “You let a man like that into my town. For profit. And he murdered Abbygail. They chopped up her body and scattered it for scavengers. That’s who you let in here. Because it was profitable.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I don’t know how you came across this information, but it is wrong. Completely and utterly—”

Dalton hits him. A right hook to the jaw. Phil flies off his feet. Dalton steps away. Then he follows me into the house, leaving Phil on the ground outside.