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She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. "I'm sorry. I'd decided it wasn't worth mentioning. But after her death ... I was trying to figure out how to tell you."
"Not worth mentioning? That the local sheriff was seen making out with a girl who went missing a few days later?"
"Making out? No, it was a kiss behind the community hall. Probably a drunken one. Between a young sheriff and a girl who was deeply infatuated with him. A momentary lapse in judgment for Eric."
"Did you hear the argument?"
"What argument?"
I tell her and she says, "I didn't hear anything. Yes, I
left the party with Jen that evening. We aren't good buddies, but I understand there's more to her than the stone-cold bitch you see. She has issues. Lots of them. That doesn't mean she isn't a bitch. Or an addict. Or a part-time prostitute. It also means she lies."
"You think she's lying about the fight?"
"Maybe not outright, but I'd strongly consider the possibility that her hatred of Eric colours her interpretation. Think about it. If Abbygail had a crush on Eric, is she really going to tell him off for kissing her? Isn't it more likely that Eric realized it was a mistake, backed off, and she got angry? Embarrassed?"
"Just because she had a crush doesn't necessarily mean she'd welcome an advance."
I want her to argue my point. She only goes quiet and then says, "I guess so," and I'm left with this stark truth: something happened between Abbygail and Dalton, and he hid it, and now she's dead.
After I talk to Petra, I run home, if not physically, then mentally. I pretend I don't hear the hellos or see the waves and the smiles, and I get my ass home as fast as I can without actually breaking into a run. I stumble inside, close the door, and collapse against it.
Dalton and Abbygail.
I want to say that Petra is right, that the fight was because they kissed, and he backed off. But even that doesn't fit my image of him. Kissing Abbygail--drunk or not--steps over a line. He was her mentor, her big brother, the guy determined to set her on the right track and keep her there. To kiss her was a violation of that trust.
I want better from him. There, it's out. The sad truth. That Abbygail isn't the only girl with a crush. Perhaps this is why I identify with Abbygail--because I'm not a grown woman seeing a man and saying, "I want that." It's my inner teen who looks at Dalton with just a touch of that starry-eyed gaze. Like Abbygail, I missed that stage in my teen years. If I liked a guy, I let him know. If he wasn't interested, I moved on without a backward glance. I was as efficient in my love life as I was in everything else.
I've polished over Dalton's rough edges, put him on a pedestal, and said, "This is a good man." A man with a strong and true inner compass. A man who would not kiss a damaged, infatuated, twenty-one-year-old girl. And if he got drunk and did, he'd admit it to his new detective because it played into her investigation, and if he'd done nothing wrong, then there was no reason not to admit it.
Once night comes, I cycle through nightmares of Dalton and Abbygail. He kisses her, and that kiss is more than she wants, so she pushes him away. He asks her to meet him in the forest--he has something to show her, an apology for his bad behaviour. She goes. He kisses her again. She fights him off. Things get out of control and Abbygail dies. Then the accidental killing of Abbygail unleashes something in him, a twisted perversion of his need to protect his town. He'll cover up Abbygail's death by killing those he suspects of being smuggled in.
The next nightmare scene is right out of a movie--the female detective who is so enamoured of her new boss that she never realizes he's the killer, even when the audience is shouting at her and groaning at her stupidity. Dalton lures me into the forest, and I run along after him like an eager puppy. Run to my doom. Deservedly so.
In a movie, he would be the killer. The last guy you'd suspect. The sheriff devoted to keeping his town's people safe is actually the guy murdering them? Ah, the irony. Afterward, viewers can look back and spot the clues that point to him.
Dalton didn't want Anders and me wandering off in that cave. He'd been the one who overreacted to Petra's scream. The brave and dedicated shepherd worried about his flock? Or the killer who knew what we must have found?
Dalton asked for a detective, but he also discouraged me from coming here. Maybe he only wanted to look as if he wanted a detective. Then, when he was forced to take me, he decided to build a relationship where I would trust him enough to share all aspects of my investigation.
And about Abbygail and Dalton ... Am I so sure there wasn't a secret relationship? It's not as if he's dating anyone else in town. Or even sleeping with anyone as far as I can tell. Something is off there.
There's a lot off when it comes to Eric Dalton. Maybe those eccentricities and complications are a sign of deeper damage. Of a deeper schism. Of a truly dark side to his nature.
Those are the thoughts that keep me tossing all night. Then I wake--on the folding mattress he gave me, beside a stack of his books--and I look up at the fading stars and hear him telling me the constellations, and I can't see absolute darkness. Not in Dalton.
Or maybe I just don't want to.
FORTY-THREE
I need to talk to someone who isn't a fan of Dalton. Perhaps "fan" is the wrong word. He definitely has them. But there are plenty of people in Rockton who support him, and even most who are divided on the issue will grudgingly admit he's a good sheriff. The only people I've heard openly say otherwise are Hastings, Diana, Jen, and Val.
I only have to say nine words when Val cracks open her door: I need to speak to you about Sheriff Dalton. She ushers me in with, "Five minutes, detective. I have things to do."
Her home ... No, again that's the wrong word. This is not a home. The living room looks exactly like mine did when I moved in. While decor isn't a priority in Rockton, people still need to feather their nests. Petra's secondary source of income is sketching and selling wall art. Others knit blankets, quilt pillows, and make crafts from whatever else they find on the forest's edge.
The only thing Val has added to her room is a shelf of writing journals. One book is open upside down on the end table, with a pen beside it.
