Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
I don’t ask whether Dalton thinks a storm’s brewing. Yes, his brother can be overly cautious—living most of his time in the wild means he’s more concerned about storms than Dalton, who’s accustomed to a solidly built town full of resources. But if Dalton thought there was a chance of trouble, he’d get us back home. Asking might make him second-guess and cut our walk short.
“Regarding Sebastian,” he says, a few minutes after we part ways from Jacob. “Since the drug used was one he takes, and there are capsules missing, logically, it came from his stash. Either he did it or someone stole them. Those are the only options.”
“They are,” I say.
As the path narrows, Dalton falls back behind the sled. “I’d like to jump on theft as the answer, but that’s complicated.”
“Because it requires someone knowing Sebastian has the pills, and it seems the only people he told are staff members. Of course, while I’d love to say none of them could have done it, we know that’s not true.”
In Rockton, we had several cases where the culprit turned out to be a trusted staff member, even a good friend.
“Could be that someone from the dinner party told someone else,” Dalton says. “Casual conversation. Talking about sleep aids. Names come up, including Sebastian’s.”
“True,” I say. “It’s still a leap from Sebastian mentioning he takes ‘something’ to Kendra’s attacker realizing he’s taking seriously strong medication. If the person only wanted sleep meds, others at the table said they also have some. I’ll need a list of who said that, but I can’t see anyone deciding, from that list, that the person whose place they want to break into is Mathias.”
I adjust a fur that’s slid down behind me. “Unless Sebastian was the only name mentioned in a secondhand conversation.”
“Could be. I can’t see someone listing off everyone who’s taking meds so they could just give one example, and it’s him. But yeah, the theft answer isn’t an easy one.”
“Which leaves Sebastian as a suspect.”
We continue on in silence until Dalton says, “You want me to play devil’s advocate on that?”
I smile over my shoulder at him. “Please.”
“Okay.” He rubs his hands together, gloves swishing. “I am now an advocate for the devil, arguing why the nice young man who rescued Kendra could actually have been her attacker.”
“Because that nice young man is also a sociopath who murdered his parents?”
Dalton moves up beside me. “Strange how that should be the obvious answer, and yet it isn’t. You ever get the feeling we have some skewed ideas of what constitutes ‘nice people’?”
“I killed a guy and got away with it. I don’t think I’m the audience for that question.”
“But that only means you’re very unlikely to do it again,” Dalton says. “You slipped up and spent half your life drowning in guilt. In Sebastian’s case, he knew what he was doing. But he didn’t get away with it either.”
“He didn’t try, from what I understand.”
Dalton sighs. “We got the strangest people in Rockton, didn’t we?”
“Yep, and then we hired them all on as staff for our non-evil new town. But yes, Sebastian didn’t try to get away with killing his parents. He knew the price. He decided it was worth the risk. Same principle here. If he attacked Kendra and got caught, he’d be sent south, which he really doesn’t want. He could take off back to Felicity and the First Settlement, but if we told her what he did, she’d kick his ass out.” I readjust the furs on my legs. “Which is talking about why I think he couldn’t do it, and I want ways he could have.”
“That’s my job, advocating for the dark side. Okay, possibility one. Sebastian attacked Kendra and then, with her confusion, made it seem as if he was rescuing her.”
I shake my head. “She spotted him while she was being dragged. There’s no confusion about that.”
“Yeah, also, why drug her and then rescue her? I can see some twisted fuck doing that for hero points. I can even see Sebastian manipulating a situation to get something out of it.”
“Sociopathy 101.”
“But what would he want from Kendra? Nothing I can see. Maybe something from the town? Again, not that I can see.”
“Sebastian doesn’t want anything except to stay for as long as he chooses, and he’s in no danger of being kicked out. So there is no plausible chance that he was both attacker and rescuer.”
“Possibility two. He was the one who drugged Kendra, and that’s why he was outside. He was waiting for her to come out.”
“And someone else took advantage?”
Dalton throws up his hands. “Maybe? I’m playing advocate without a law degree here. Cut me some slack, Butler.”
“He was outside walking Raoul. Kendra saw the dog, so that part is confirmed.”
“Raoul could have been the excuse, in case Sebastian was caught.”
“No one saw Sebastian in the bar that night.” I pull more furs over my legs. “Overall, while ‘drugged her and someone else claimed his prey’ is a possibility, it’s very remote because, again, we can’t see a motive. So let’s set it aside. The related theory would be that Sebastian was working with her attacker. He supplies the drugs. The other person doses Kendra. They’re both hanging around to grab her. His partner gets to her first. But Kendra sees Sebastian, so he has to play rescuer.”
“Could work,” Dalton muses. “Even better if his partner doses Kendra, and when Sebastian sees who the prey is, he changes his mind. He likes Kendra. As a person, that is. The problem still goes back to the first issue, though. What would be his motive and could we imagine him doing this?”
I shake my head. “I really can’t. I hate saying that about anyone. I’ve been wrong before.”
“We both have. But if we combine not being able to imagine it with the complication of him being the one who rescued her?”
“The chances it’s him seem next to nil. So we presume the attacker found out about the temazepam and stole it. That’s easily done while the apartment is empty, and the pill box wasn’t exactly well hidden. We…”
I trail off as I see I’ve lost my husband’s attention. He’s turning slowly, gaze up.
“Eric?”
“Fuck.”
I notice it then. I’ve been fussing with my furs without realizing why—because the temperature has plummeted. My cheeks are cold, and I have every fur wrapped around me. I follow Dalton’s gaze to the nearby mountain. The top is gone, lost in dark clouds.
I echo Dalton’s curse. This is one thing about living near mountains. The weather can seem fine, and then it’s as if the storm peeks out from behind it. The wind has also shifted to the northwest, blasting cold through the thick forest.
“We okay?” I ask, trying to sound calm while being very aware that I’m stuck in a sled pulled by a dog.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” he says. “But it’s time to get back. Come on, pup. No rest break today. I’ll help with the pulling.”
We beat the storm to Haven’s Rock. Dalton doesn’t exactly run, but he does move faster. While the danger of being caught out is minimal, he doesn’t want anyone—mostly himself—thinking he’d taken a risk with his heavily pregnant wife. It’s a reminder to me that I’m not the only one living under the looming shadow of future guilt. There’s a rock precariously poised above us both—the chance that something will go wrong and we’ll blame ourselves.
By the time we reach Haven’s Rock, snow is falling. It’s light, but carried on a sharp wind that warns of worse to come. Once we see our chalet, Dalton picks up the pace even more, leaning into the rope and pulling hard enough that I need to hang on tight.
When he opens the front door, it whips out of his hand, and he curses. I turn around to squint into the woods. It’s dark enough that I need to check my watch. Four fifteen. Yes, in midwinter, this would be dusk, but in late March, we should have another few hours of sun.
“Coming in fast,” I say, and I need to raise my voice over the howl of wind.
Dalton only grunts and waves me inside. The fire is out—we don’t waste wood when we’re not home. I shuck my outerwear and head for the fireplace as Dalton slams the door behind me. Then he bangs on it, and I head back to help secure the heavy latches that will keep it snugly shut against the wind.
By the time the fire is roaring, that’s the only light in the house. Dalton has closed and latched all the shutters. I turn on the living-room light. In Rockton, we used a combination of battery lanterns, oil, and candles. While we have oil and candles here, innovations have made higher tech more energy efficient. We have solar panels on the house—ones that won’t reflect and alert passing planes. That means electricity. We don’t always use it, but being able to flip a switch and get light feels like a minor miracle. It’s a reminder of just how outdated Rockton had become. Solar could have worked. So could tech like tablets and cameras. But that cost money, and there were investors to feed.
Haven’s Rock is what Rockton should have been all along. The philanthropic project of a billionaire who doesn’t give a damn about the tax-deductible status of her donation. Haven’s Rock helps émilie give back, and we accept that. We also accept a modest salary because, when Rockton shut down, people who’d devoted years of their lives to it realized they were being thrown into the world with the equivalent of pocket change.
Having all expenses covered means we don’t need much income, but it’s important to know that if this town fails, our staff will be in a financial position to reestablish in the real world.
I don’t really have that concern. I came to Rockton with a sizable inheritance, and while April and I contributed to rebuilding, we have plenty left.
The main advantage to a lack of greedy investors is state-of-the-art construction. Our fireplace will heat our whole chalet through a snowstorm. The solar battery will give us light even on days with limited sunshine. And our very solidly built house will withstand Nature’s beating. While I putter about, Dalton heads off to literally batten down the town’s hatches with others.
I can only faintly hear the wind outside, and with the windows shuttered, it’s easy to forget what’s happening there. I’m reminded when Dalton bangs on the front door and shouts for me to unlatch it and stand back.
I do, and when the door flies open, a bucketful of snow rushes with it. I peer out into what looks like a night scene, the sky dark, snow blasting in on a wailing wind.
Dalton has to lean on the door to keep it shut as I latch it. When we’re done, he exhales and leans against it.
“Hot chocolate?” I say.
“Please.”
He shakes off the snow, making me yelp as it hits my bare feet.
“Toasty in here,” he says.
“You complaining?”
“Nope.”
He heads for the kitchen, but I shoo him into the living room. I’ve been off my feet for hours. I can handle making him a hot drink.
We sit and drink our cocoa and listen to the whine of the wind.
“Sounds like a bad one,” I say.
“Worse than I expected. Definitely a blizzard.”
“Everything okay in town?”
“Yeah. I just don’t like…” He shakes his head. “Shitty timing.”
It takes a moment to realize what he means. Shitty timing because it means we’ll be grounded for a few days. While flying south is never as easy as calling an ambulance, it’s nice to know we have that option. We don’t right now.
I get off my recliner and snuggle down beside him on the sofa. “I feel fine.”
“Good.”
I reach and take his chin to turn his face toward me. “Really. I feel fine. My biggest worry is how the storm’s going to delay my investigation.”
“At least we don’t have to worry about anyone else getting dosed at the Roc,” he says. “Storm like this means it’ll be closed for a day or two.”
“Which might not be such a bad thing.” I lean in to kiss him. “Let’s take advantage of the fact no one can come banging on our door tonight.”
He arches one brow.
I laugh. “Yes to that, later, but for now, let’s stick to the time-honored storm tradition of eating junk food for dinner and playing board games.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
When I wake with cramps, I grumble at myself loud enough for Storm to lift her head from the floor and whine. I’m still downstairs, having fallen asleep in my rocker recliner.
I stretch my legs and tell myself I hallucinated the cramping. There’s no way I can actually be feeling contractions. It’s hy pochondria. Realize I’m trapped in Haven’s Rock, and I start thinking I’m going into labor. The last two times I had a scare, there’d been plenty of warning signs, and I really had felt fine earlier. No aching in my abdomen. No weird sensation that something just wasn’t right. Definitely no cramping.
I’m fine.
Of course, as soon as I think that, my thoughts swing to Is the baby fine?
When’s the last time I felt movement? The last kick or punch or—?
The baby shifts, and I swear there’s a grumble in that shift.
I’m trying to sleep, Mom. Can you stop worrying? You’re keeping me up.
I smile and lay my hand on my stomach. “Sorry, Quinn.”
I sometimes test the names for size, seeing how they feel, even if I have a sense we’ll need to see our baby before picking.
“Riley?” I try.
My stomach moves as they shift again.
“Is that a yes to Riley?” I say. “Or another ‘let me sleep, damn it’?”
A bump appears in a kick, only to vanish again.
“Sorry,” I say. “Go back to sleep… Avery.” I purse my lips. “I kind of like that one.”
“Sure,” mumbles a voice beside me. “Avery works. Sleep works, too.”
I reach over and pat Dalton’s head. He’s on the sofa, stretched out with his head next to my recliner.
“Sorry,” I say. “To both of you. Sleep it is. I’ll see you—”
A cramp hits, strong enough for me to catch my breath.
“Casey?” Dalton twists to look at me.
“Seems I have a case of indigestion or paranoia,” I say. “Probably both, between the storm and our very unhealthy dinner. My stomach’s a bit off. That’s what woke me up. It’s fine.” I rub my stomach. “Sorry about the two cups of hot chocolate, kid.”
Dalton still sits up and flips on the side table lantern. “What does it feel like?”
I want to lie to reassure him, but I won’t do that. “Cramps. But they could be stomach ones. It’s hard to tell. Stomach, uterus…”
He peers at me.
“ Honestly, ” I say. “I can’t tell, and I really was fine all of yesterday. Whatever this is, they’re not coming close enough together to be contractions.”
“Uh, don’t contractions start farther apart and get closer?”
Another hits, and I try not to make a face, but they’re strong enough that I can’t help it. Dalton scrambles up, and in a blink, he’s hovering over me.
“I really think it might just be my stomach,” I say. “I can’t remember my last bowel movement. I bet that’s it. Can I get some help up the stairs?”
Dalton crosses his arms. “I’d rather not add to the tally of babies who’ve been born in toilets because Mom thought she had to poop.”
“But the fact that it happens proves I’m right that it’s hard to tell the difference between stomach cramps and contractions. I—”
Another one hits. This one lasts long enough that I have to grit my teeth through it.
“Those seem a little too regular to be digestive cramps, Butler,” Dalton says when it passes.
“Fuck.”
Dalton laughs under his breath. “Well, at least we’re both remaining calm about this. Despite the fact there is a raging storm outside. I just hope we’re not in shock and are going to freak out in five minutes.”
“You’re in shock. I’m in denial. Whole different land.” I put both hands on the seat and push myself to standing. “Damn it. I don’t know what this is. I really might just need to use the—”
Another one hits, hard enough to almost double me over.
Dalton catches me. “I think the shock is fading, Butler. Panic imminent.”
“They could be Braxton-Hicks contractions.”
“Which you have had, and we know all the signs of, including that they don’t come closer than five minutes apart.”
The fact that I forgot that shows I’m deep in that land of denial.
“Tell me I can at least call your sister,” he says.
I nod. “This is one case where she won’t give me shit for waking her up.”
Dalton goes for the sat phone on the mantel as I stretch. I’m really not panicking, which is good. Yes, there’s a storm, but even if this is labor, it feels normal. No sudden stabs of pain. Just those strong cramps a few minutes apart.
If Quinn/Riley/Avery is coming early, it’ll be okay. They’ll be far enough along. We’re prepared. Everything is fine.
I keep repeating that mantra until Dalton curses. Then my whole body convulses, proving I’m not as calm as I’m pretending.
“Phone won’t connect,” he says. “Damn storm. Are you okay if I run over— No, April has everything there. I should take you— Snowstorm. Fuck. ”
He lifts his hands to run through his hair. I catch his arms and pull them down.
“I’m fine, Eric. Even if this is true labor, I really do feel fine. Yes, April has everything she needs there, so that’s where we should go. It’s five hundred feet.”
“In a snowstorm.”
I tilt my head to listen. “The storm actually seems to have died down.”
His lips tighten, as if I’m being difficult, but he doesn’t argue. It really has gone quiet.
“Get dressed and go out,” I say. “If it’s bad, we’ll rethink this. Otherwise, the sled is right there.”
I catch his hands again and squeeze.
“I feel fine. If this is it…” I look up at him. “We’ll be okay. Nothing is wrong. Just a potential early arrival. Okay?”
He nods, and I nudge him toward the front to get on his outerwear.