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"Seven weeks."
He still counted it in weeks, probably only recently stopped counting it in days. That's what you do with the cases that haunt you.
"So about four weeks before Irene was murdered," I said. "Five or so weeks before Powys disappeared."
"Yep."
"You think there's a connection," I say. "That Abbygail didn't just wander into the forest. No more than Irene Prosser nearly cut off her own hands."
He reaches for his beer. Remembers it's empty and makes a face.
"Could Abbygail have been murdered?" he says. "I am not the person to make that determination. Not me. Not Will or Beth or Mick or anyone else who feels responsible for what happened."
I take the file. Before I go in, I murmur, "Thank you. For explaining." If he hears, he gives no sign of it. He's already staring into the forest again.
Night falls. I'm packing up to leave, and Anders comes in.
"Want to grab a drink?" he asks.
I don't. I'm in a funk, thinking about Irene and Abbygail, and all I want to do is go home and curl up and maybe have a shot of tequila on my own. But I get the feeling that drinking alone out here is the first step toward darkness. What I really want to do is see Diana. But she's avoiding me.
I tell myself it's temporary. Low self-confidence causes her to stay with guys like Graham, and it also means sometimes she decides she's stuck in my shadow and needs to escape for a while. She'll back off until her confidence returns.
Tonight, though, the loss of Diana just seems one more weight on the load already dragging me down. I'm in this godforsaken town with can
nibals outside and a killer inside, and now the friend I've come here to help has abandoned me.
So no, I don't want to go for a drink. But there isn't any reason to take out my mood on Anders, so I say, "Okay," then, "I need to drop a few of these files at my place. I'll meet you--"
"Those files stay in that cabinet," Dalton cuts in from across the room.
"All right," I say, as evenly as I can. "I'll drop off my notes--"
"Your notes stay here, too."
I turn on him. "Excuse me?"
He's sitting at the desk, doing paperwork. He doesn't even lift his head. "It's nine o'clock at night. You're going for a drink. Work will wait."
"All right. I'll finish a couple of things and lock them in the file cabinet. Are we going to the Roc or the Red Lion?"
Silence. I look over at Anders.
"The, uh, Roc...?" He turns to Dalton. "You explained, right? About the Roc?" When Dalton keeps working, Anders curses under his breath. "Of course not. Stupid question." He looks at me. "The, uh, Roc is for ... Well, the women there ... It's not really a bar as much as..."
"It's a brothel," Dalton says.
I turn to him. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't, because there's no way in hell you'd allow a house of prostitution--"
"Not my call."
"It sure as hell is your call, sheriff. You've told me this town has a problem with the lack of women. I went to see Diana last night and got hassled by three men on the way there. Then I'm knocking on her door and the next thing you know, a guy is offering me a hundred credits for sex."
"What?" Anders says.
