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She waves a hand. “No, not really. Just...”
She turns the phone my way. It’s a text from Mrs. George. Apparently, the Georges have been giving a lot of thought to that letter and the fate of Joni Mayfair. This morning, Mr. George remembered that hunters had found bones about five miles from the lodge twenty years ago. The remains of a young man and young woman. As far as the Georges know, they’ve never been identified.
“Shit,” I say.
“What’s up?” Diana says.
Casey explains. As she does, Diana’s face falls.
“Damn,” she says. “I really hoped she’d got away. Poor kid.”
Diana was the victim of an abusive husband herself. She got away... but it was more complicated than that, and I’ll admit that’s one of the reasons I’ll never really understand Diana. Idounderstand, though, that her situation is none of my fucking business and that unless I’ve been in someone’s place, I can’t judge them.
Okay, I can judge Diana a little—ormorethan a little—for what she did to Casey, but what happened between her and her ex is complicated and none of my business. It doesn’t negate the fact that shewasabused, and when she says this about Joni, she means it.
“You think the remains could belong to the young woman who wrote the letter?” April says. “Joni and her lover?”
Her voice is uncharacteristically quiet, the question almost tentative. I once watched a movie where a guy had autism, and they made it seem as if his lack of emotion meant he didn’thaveemotions, as if he were some kind of damned robot. That’s bullshit. It’s a lack of affect, not a lack of feeling.
“We don’t know that,” Casey says softly. “I’m still hoping it’s wrong.”
“Can you speak to the local police department?” April asks. “Professional to professional?”
Casey hesitates, and I know she’s thinking she’s no longer officially law enforcement. To come to Rockton, she quit her job, and one part of building a new Rockton means she’s giving up that career permanently. It’s what she wants, but I know it stings, and it also makes her hesitant to call herself a police officer around other law enforcement.
“You could say you’re a private eye,” Diana says.
Casey laughs under her breath. “I’m not sure that’d be any better.”
“But it sounds cooler.”
“Tell them youwerea police officer,” April says. “A homicide detective. Now you’re freelance. It’s true.” She sips her cocoa, trying for nonchalance. “And you really should get those answers. I’m sure the Georges would appreciate closure.”
April wants the answers, too. She’s invested in this mystery, and from the way Diana’s looking at us, April isn’t the only one.
“I could call,” I say. “Or Will could.”
“No,” she says. “I’ll talk to them. In person.”
* * *
Like the Yukon,British Columbia doesn’t have a provincial police force. They use the federal RCMP—the Mounties. So it’s an RCMP detachment we’re visiting, and when we get there, Casey curses under her breath.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“I was expecting a larger station, which means I didn’t think it through. I’m not used to policing in places this small.”
I snort.
She gives me a look. “Yeah, yeah. Rockton was a whole lot smaller. I meanofficialpolicing. I’m a city girl. I was thinking of a police department with dozens of staff, including someone who’d have worked a twenty-year-old case.”
“Even if no one here today did, I bet they still know about it.” I wave at the tiny building. “Place like this can’t get a whole lot of dead bodies showing up in the woods.”
“Because they aren’t Rockton.”
“Yep.”
We head inside. Casey introduces herself with her real name and real position—former position, she clarifies. She says she’s now working for a mining settlement in the Yukon, but she’s here for a few months and found a letter that could be connected to one of their unsolved cases. Would anyone have a few minutes to talk to her about it?
