We’re upstairs in our bedroom. Phil is gone—I checked out the balcony window. I’ve let Storm upstairs, only because it would be more upsetting to keep her out and listen to her cry. Dalton is in the chair by our bed, and she’s at his feet, her muzzle on his boots, which he’s forgotten to take off. I bend to untie them, and he removes them silently. Then he says, “I fucked up.”

“Yes.”

He looks at me.

“This is the one time I’m not going to argue,” I say. “You opened a hornet’s nest that we should have left alone.”

I take his boots and set them outside the door. “It was going to happen sooner or later. Probably best that it happened when it’s just Phil, without the council listening in. That will make it easier for us to control the damage.”

“Our word against his?” He makes a face, and I know he hates that. It’s underhanded and dishonest.

“No, I have another idea. But first I have to ask if you want this damage controlled. Or is this scorched-earth time?”

He exhales and leans forward, both hands running through his hair. Then he shakes his head. “There’s part of me that says ‘fuck, yeah.’ Just throw it all out there and end this. Pack our things and go. But that’s me being pissy.”

“Which you’d regret about twelve hours later.”

“Yeah. As much as I’d like to confront the council, what good does it do? They’ll pull a Phil—pretend they don’t know what I’m talking about, treat me like a delusional idiot. Then they’ll shut me up. Exile me. Exile you. Or worse. So, no, this isn’t scorched-earth time. This is ‘Casey fixes Eric’s fuck-up’ time. And you have an idea about how to do that?”

“I do.”

* * *

After Dalton is asleep, I slip over to Anders’s place to ask him to take first search shift this morning. I know he’s only been to bed for a couple of hours—and me waking him doesn’t help—but when I explain what happened, he offers before I can ask. Then it’s back home to make sure the blackout blinds are closed, reset the alarm, and ease into bed.

When the alarm sounds at nine and I admit my subterfuge, Dalton grumbles . . . until I point out that I would much rather not trick him and just be able to ask him to stay in bed until he’s rested enough to search properly. He agrees. Even apologizes. Whether he’ll voluntarily sleep in when I ask is another matter. I can’t say I’m any better, though.

Phil is at the station when we arrive. He’s waiting by my desk, his arms crossed, as if we’re tardy children. Dalton sees him and slows to an amble, perversely acting as if he’s just strolled in whenever he feels like it. He walks right past Phil and puts on the kettle for coffee.

“I believe we have an issue to discuss,” Phil says.

“Yeah,” Dalton says as he stokes the fire. “I’d like to explain.”

Phil’s voice chills even more. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dalton straightens, still holding the poker. “You were right about Powys.”

“I should certainly hope—”

“It’s entirely possible the council didn’t know what he was. I know that, which is why I’ve never said anything until I lost my temper last night.” Dalton puts the poker back. “As for whether he did that shit, the answer is yes. Like I said, it’s online. I suspected Powys was involved with making the rydex, especially with his background. According to his entry papers, he was a pharmacist.”

“Correct.”

“So I went looking online . . . and dug up more than I bargained for.”

“Perhaps, but that hardly proves we let him buy his way in.”

“Agreed. If you don’t know anything about it, then obviously he faked his admission file.”

Phil’s eyes narrow, as if he’s waiting for the punch line.

“I don’t like the council,” Dalton says calmly. “Never made any secret of that. But, yeah, accusing them of that went too far. So I apologize. Good?”

“No, Eric, it is not good. When I said I wanted an apology, I meant for this.” He gestures to the bruise on his jaw.

“Fuck no,” Dalton says. “You deserved that.”

Phil’s sputtering as the door swings open.

“Good, you’re still here,” Wallace says as he walks in. “I was afraid I’d been left behind. So, when do we start searching for Oliver?”

* * *

Dalton does not want to take Wallace into the forest. He argues. Vehemently. Profanely. Loudly. He is overruled by Phil. Both Wallace and Phil are coming along, and there’s nothing we can do about that.

We fill thermoses with coffee and grab breakfast-to-go at the bakery. I think Dalton’s hoping that our speedy departure will change Wallace’s mind. It doesn’t. Within the hour, we’re deep in the forest, with the two men and Storm.

Dalton takes the lead with the dog. I hang back with Phil and Wallace. That’s deliberate, allowing our trackers to work. I chat with Wallace. Phil tries several times to pull Wallace’s attention his way, with topics I can’t possibly address—American election issues, a stock-market roller coaster—but Wallace only answers politely and then steers conversation back to include me.

Phil surrenders with a sniff and once-over of me, as if suggesting Wallace is only paying attention to me because I’m female. I get no such vibe from the older man, though. Wallace is just politely keeping conversation on things I can discuss, like the forest itself. When Phil falls back, I warn him to please stay close, but he dawdles just enough that I need to keep shoulder-checking to be sure he’s with us.

When Wallace realizes both Dalton and Phil are almost out of earshot, he lowers his voice and says, “I would like to speak to you about something.” He pauses. “Or perhaps not so much a discussion as a confession.”

“Hmm?”

“About Oliver. I know how this looks from your viewpoint. You are a detective. You’re supposed to catch people like my stepson and put them in prison. That is what should have happened to Oliver. And yet it did not. Why? Because we’re rich. We can afford alternatives, and the alternative I chose resulted in the death of five more people.”

“Yes.”

He gives a strained chuckle. “Not going to sugarcoat that for me, are you?”

“I grew up with money. Not your tax bracket, but my parents had very successful careers, and we enjoyed all the privileges that come with that. So I won’t rage about the inherent evil of the upper class. But nor do I agree with anyone using their money and their privilege to keep a serial killer out of prison.”

We walk in silence for a few minutes. Then he says, “I told myself I was doing the right thing. The responsible thing. I’m embarrassed to say that now, but it’s true. I thought that by incarcerating Oliver, I was saving my country that expense. Doing my civic duty by removing him from the population while not charging the taxpayer for our mistakes.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh, I know. The truth is . . .” He exhales. “I love my wife. I wanted to protect her—not only from a trial, but from ever knowing what Oliver did. As soon as the police started questioning, I hired an investigator. I found evidence and confronted Oliver. When I threatened to turn my evidence over to the police, he confessed. So I whisked him away and told my wife that he was innocent, but we couldn’t trust the justice system. I said they’d convict him on the grounds of being a spoiled, rich white boy. But my wife wasn’t the only reason I did that. I wanted to avoid the business ramifications of having a serial killer for a stepson. It was a sound business investment. Whatever this costs, it is not nearly the blow my finances would suffer if Oliver was arrested.”

Storm barks, and I tense. It’s just a quick bark, though, with a response from Dalton. I can see them through the trees around the next curve, and while I can’t make out what Dalton’s saying, there’s no alarm in his voice.

Wallace has gone quiet, and I think he’s waiting for me to respond. This is, as he said, a confession. A safe one, too—it’s not as if I can tell the newspapers what he’s said.

If he wants absolution, he has to look elsewhere. I do, however, credit him for the confession, which is why I just stay quiet.

“I wanted to be clear that I understand my position here,” Wallace continues. “I am the interloper who brought this on your town. I realize now what I’ve done, and I’m sorry it took five deaths for me to understand that.” Another few steps in silence. “I really did believe this solution was a valid one. But the hard truth is that anyone who comes into contact with Oliver is at risk. The only truly viable solution is one that doesn’t put him into contact with anyone. Ever.”

Execution. That’s what he means, and I stiffen, fearing he’s hinting that we should resolve this with lethal action. But his gaze is straight ahead, distant.

Jail is no longer an option. We both know that. It ceased to be an option as soon as Brady came here. Put him into custody, and he’ll cut a deal any way he can, including talking about Rockton.

I don’t know where to go with this, what to say, so after I glance back for Phil, I change the subject with, “You say it’d be a blow to your personal finances, but Oliver claims your family money comes from his father—from a business he started.”

Wallace nods. “Yes, that’s his version of history, and it’s our fault. His mother’s and mine. We wanted to keep his father alive for him. Honor him with a legacy of success.”

“And the truth?”

“I worked for Oliver’s father. At one time, we were partners, but when we formed the business, the money came from his family, so his name went on it. That seemed fair. The problem was that while David was an incredible inventor, he didn’t have a lick of business sense. I lacked the clout to overrule him, and at the time of his death, the company was floundering.”

“You brought it back.”

A sharp laugh. “There was no place to bring it back from. We had investors—David’s ideas were incredible—but we’d been scrambling to stay afloat from the start.”

“With Oliver’s father gone, though, you turned it around.”

“Oliver’s mother and I did. Together. Yet David’s name remains on the company, and we have allowed Oliver the fiction of his brilliant inventor father who launched a billion-dollar corporation. Which led, unfortunately, to Oliver beginning to demand more than a trust fund. When his mother had enough, she showed him the financial records from the year of his father’s death. He accused us of forging them. By that point . . .”

He shrugs. “By that point, I knew there was no arguing with him. He was never happy, never satisfied. Everyone was conspiring to keep him from his due.”

I check for Phil again and—

The path behind us is empty. Then I spot him, stopped off the path with his back to us. It’s obvious from his stance what he’s doing.

I turn to give him privacy and call, “Eric? Hold up.” I have to shout—he’s too far ahead to see on the winding path. Then I say, “Phil, please let us know if you are stopping. The absolute last thing we need—”

At a rustle behind me, I turn. But it’s not Phil. It’s a man holding an old rifle, trained on me. Two men armed with knives step out in front of Wallace. Behind them, Phil stands frozen, staring at the men. Their backs are to him, and I tear my gaze away before they spot him.

One glance tells me these men are settlers, not hostiles, and I relax at that. I’m cautious, though, gauging the distance to my gun, ready to pull it if that rifle barrel swings out of my way.

I open my mouth to speak. Then I hear:

“Let them go.”

As I turn, Dalton appears at knifepoint, his hands on the back of his head. Two men and a woman follow at his rear. The woman holds Storm’s lead. My gaze drops to the dog.

“Take Storm and our friend there back to Rockton, Casey,” Dalton says. “I’ve got this under control.”

If my heart wasn’t thudding so hard, I’d laugh. He said the same thing when Jacob had a knife on him. His brother was drugged and ranting and threatening . . . and Dalton’s biggest concern was reassuring me that he could handle it. They’d talk it out. Yeah, just talk it out. No big deal.

“We are not letting your girl go,” one of the men says.

“She’s my wife,” Dalton says, “and if Edwin has one drop of respect for me, he will let her walk away with our guest and the dog, and I will come willingly and answer any questions you have.”

Edwin. Questions.

The First Settlement. The massacre.

Oh, shit.

“The girl comes,” the man says. “That is what Edwin says. He wishes to speak to the girl.”

I swear Wallace snorts softly. He’s already realized that, given the choice, everyone prefers to speak to me instead of Dalton.

“All right,” I say. “Let Eric take our guest and dog home to Rockton. I’ll talk to Edwin.”

Dalton mouths Fuck no, his jaw setting in a way I know well. But before he can speak, the man says, “Edwin will talk to the girl, but he says to bring Steve’s boy. That was the order. Do not let him leave. If he tries”—he looks at Dalton—“shoot him.”