Max nods. “He does. Being here will help. Get him used to different people walking past your apartment and all that.”
“Excellent idea.” She looks at me. “I think I’m in good hands here. I’ll take that invitation for dinner, though. You said seven?”
“Come by anytime after six. Dinner will be at seven.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve invited Lilith to more than just dinner. It’s games night. This alternates between D&D and board games, to accommodate both those who won’t play D&D and those who won’t play anything else. Tonight, it’s board games, and we decided to proceed by making it a curfew-appropriate silent games night. April usually won’t play the non-D&D games, but I brought home something special to entice her—a whodunit game.
Dalton makes dinner—that’s his forte. While it’s cooking, I’m jotting notes as he plays with Rory, and I pause to watch them. He’s on his stomach on the floor, piling blocks for her to knock down. They’re blocks made by Kenny and painted by Max—and Gunnar, I think—with letters, numbers, and Yukon flora and fauna. As Dalton lifts each, he points out the animals.
Musk ox. Wolf. Mountain goat. Fox. Arctic hare. Ground squirrel.
Someone else might skip that part, reasoning Rory is too young to understand. And she is. But it’s not about teaching her the animals or the alphabet yet. It’s about hearing her father’s voice, his patience and his care and his own interest in whathe’s sharing. She listens so intently you’d almost think she did understand, but her eyes aren’t on the blocks; they’re on him, basking in his full attention.
Dalton worried he wouldn’t be a good father. While most new dads have concerns about that, he grew up in Rockton, where he was the only child. But I knew this is exactly what he’d be like as a father, because it’s what he is—patient and kind and loving and endlessly fascinated by the world around him and eager to share it.
Movement flashes outside the window. Our guests arriving. I rise and walk over to see Kenny and April. She’s talking, and she’s obviously irritated by something, needing to vent about it to someone, and Kenny is that someone. Maybe theonlyone she really feels she can talk to that way, who will let her vent without belittling her concerns or offering advice. He walks beside her, nodding and occasionally replying with a word or two, which is all anyone needs for a good vent.
I look from Dalton, still playing with Rory, to Kenny, engrossed in what is almost certainly a very minor issue of April’s and treating it with all the serious concern she needs. We’re lucky, both of us, to have someone who so perfectly fits what we need.
“That April?” Dalton says, obviously hearing her voice.
I walk over, bending to hug him from the back and kiss his head.
“What’s that for?” he says.
I smile and say, “Nothing,” and then I go to answer the door.
It’s the middle of the night, and I’m on patrol. Actually, Dalton and I are both on duty. We’ve felt bad about opting out so far.Of course, no one really expects us to take our turns when we have a babyandan active investigation, but we feel the weight of that responsibility.
We head out at four, after feeding Rory and delivering her to Dana. It’s still dark. Pitch-dark. We’re on the path with Storm, circling the town on first one path and then another, with only a faint light to guide us.
I’m usually up at this hour anyway. The only difference is I’d be cuddled in a chair, sipping tea before a roaring fire, waiting for the sun to rise. Okay, it’s a big difference, compared to freezing my ass off in the predawn hours, walking in circles while trying to pay attention to the slightest noise or movement around us.
We can’t talk either. That’s even more important now, when the darkness seems to add a layer of silence. Even our footsteps whisper on the hard path.
I’m struggling to focus. It’s dark, and I’m cold and bored, and my mind wants to help out by taking me someplace else. Think about the case. About Blake. About Gretchen. About the mining camp. So much to consider, and yet the moment I even idly process a thought, my brain deep-dives into it, yanking all my focus along for the ride.
So I am stuck walking and trying to just enjoy that while paying attention to my surroundings. Then, when we’re on the outermost path, Dalton puts up a hand to stop me, and the moment I halt, I hear a voice.
A woman’s voice?
That’s what it sounds like. It’s low, as if whispered. Another voice responds, this one sounding male.
Dalton looks at me. Considering the options. I gesture for him to take this one, while I hang back with Storm. He still pauses, but ultimately, he nods. It might just be residents, upearly and not realizing their voices are carrying, even in whispers. But someone needs to sneak up for a look, and that should be him.
As he goes, I back up against a tree and take out my gun. Storm sits in front of me. And we wait.
Any other time, I’d marvel at how silently Dalton moves, but when it’s this quiet, I can hear him. The scuff of his boot against the ground. The swish of his sleeve against his jacket. Soon that fades, and I’m alone in the dark and the silence. Even Storm leans against me, as if she doesn’t like this any more than I do.
The voices are sporadic, and I can’t tell whether that’s disjointed conversation or only part of it is reaching me. There’s no chance that I’d recognize either with the whisper rasping through both. I still try, hoping to decipher a word or two, but it reminds me of a horror movie, where you decipher what sounds like voices, but you can’t be sure you aren’t just hypersensitive.
Then the voices stop. I tense and strain to listen.
Did they hear Dalton? But then a few more words come, this time from the man, and his tone is even. A word from the woman. Then the crackling of undergrowth loud enough that it sounds like gunfire, though it’s just the normal rustle of fall foliage underfoot.
Someone is leaving the conversation, heading away from us, their footfalls fading into silence. A second person comes this way, more quietly. I adjust my gun, but the trajectory is sending that person to my right, heading northwest. Still, I ease into the forest and motion for Storm to follow. She does, and while her passage makes a bit of noise, the footfalls don’t stop. Whoever is out here isn’t paying attention—or dismisses the sound as an animal.
