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"I'd like you to leave now," Lang says.
"I'm sure you would," says a voice behind me. Dalton walks in and plunks himself down on the sofa as Lang squawks.
"Door was unlocked," Dalton says.
"Does it matter?"
"Guess not. I have the key."
"That isn't what I meant." Lang settles for glaring and pulls himself in, like a bird hunkering down, wings wrapped around itself. He tries to shoot a glare at Dalton, but his gaze doesn't rise above the sheriff's collar.
"So..." Dalton sprawls on the sofa, legs out, arms stretched across the back. Establishing territory, taking as much as he can while Lang draws himself ever tighter. "You were saying, Detective Butler?"
I glance over. Dalton meets my gaze, expressionless, but I still catch the message. He overheard my accusation. He's not stopping me, but he's here to make sure I don't give away anything more.
I ask Lang about Abbygail. When's the last time he saw her? And the first time? And he balks at that one--how would he remember? But he does. I can see that in his eyes. I keep circling, prodding, poking. After about twenty minutes, I close the interview and we leave.
"How much did you hear?" I ask when we're away from the house.
"Starting at the part about the meds."
"I overstepped there, didn't I?"
"Yep."
As we walk, three people wave at Dalton. Two more call greetings. They don't seem to even notice that he doesn't wave or call back.
"I'm not sure how to put aside what I read," I say. "Am I supposed to?"
Dalton scratches his chin. He walks another three steps. Then he says, "Depends on you, I guess. How you deal with it. How you compartmentalize."
A woman greets him, and this time he replies, and that makes me look up and see one of the local chefs. In his book, she's suspected of escaping charges related to befriending girls for a forced-prostitution ring.
I understand what he's saying. That if I read his journal, I have to compartmentalize. Look at this woman who cooks my meals and forget what she's been accused of, unless, like Lang, it plays into an investigation.
"Lang did notice Abbygail," Dalton says as we continue walking. "There was a..." He tilts his head, searching for a word. "Frustration there. Not really an interest. A frustration."
"Because she was the closest thing here to what he likes. Yet she was an adult woman, which he does not seem to like."
He nods. "I saw it. Monitored it. Warned Abbygail as best I could. Maybe not enough..." He drifts off for a moment, then comes back with, "She seemed to understand."
"She would have," I say. "Being from the streets, she'd have been able to sniff a predator and steer clear."
"He's still a suspect," Dalton says. "I've been watching him since she disappeared."
"Nothing?"
"Yeah."
He slows, and when I look up, we're behind the station, at the shed where they store the ATVs.
"Border run?" I say, trying not to betray a spark of excitement. My day could really use this.
"Nah, taking you out visiting. Time to talk to a guy in a cave."
TWENTY-SEVEN
I figure the "guy in a cave" thing is a local joke, like saying you need to speak to a man about a dog. Dalton certainly doesn't elaborate. We go into the drive shed, and I get a much more in-depth ATV lesson than I did when I arrived.
