City of the Lost (37 page)

“You asshole—”

“Diana,” I say. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m accused of murder, Casey.
Murder
. I’m not going to be framed by some fucked-up psycho sheriff. Ouch!” She jumps and turns to see Beth there, holding a syringe. A drop of blood soaks through the sleeve of Diana’s shirt.

“You bitch!” she says.

“You’re overwrought,” Beth says. “A result of the lingering rydex, I suspect. You should get some sleep.”

Diana makes a move to go after her, but it must have been a hefty dose, and she’s already weaving. I help her back into bed, and she seems to have forgotten what she was doing and lets me. As I pull up the sheets, she clasps my hand and slurs, “I didn’t kill Mick, Casey. I swear I didn’t.” Then she drops off to sleep.

We get a full update from Beth back at the clinic. She hasn’t had time to autopsy Mick, but the manner of his death seems clear. Six stab wounds to the back, most of them shallow but a few shoved in with enough force to do the fatal damage. She’ll run a tox screen. His eyes and breath, though, suggest he hadn’t been drinking or using last night. She suspects he was attacked from behind, possibly as he was sleeping. By the time he woke up, his attacker would have done enough damage that he’d have been unable to escape or adequately defend himself.

Stabs to the back. Attacked while asleep. Any theory that Diana acted in self-defence is disintegrating fast.

“Sleeping in the shed would suggest sex in the shed,” I say. “Were there signs of that?”

She nods. “Signs of protected sex—seminal fluid but not vaginal. I’ll be examining Diana to see if there are signs with her. Presuming Mick used a condom, it’ll be tougher to tell. I’ll mainly be looking for any suggestion of non-consensual sex, as Eric asked.”

I glance at Dalton, but he’s busy across the room on his radio. Rape is one possible reason why Diana might have attacked Mick in his sleep. Dalton is giving her the benefit of the doubt. Which is more than she’s ever given him.

Beth talks a bit more about her findings. Mick’s clothing had definitely been soaked in kerosene, as our noses told us. There are no signs of restraint. He’d almost certainly been dead from his wounds before he was placed by that woodpile. His body and clothing did show signs he’d been dragged. Probably not far, but with the fire, we’d have no way to confirm that.

“In other words, there’s nothing to suggest that a woman Diana’s size couldn’t have committed this crime,” I say.

“No. Also…” She looks toward Dalton, who’s still talking to Anders.

“Go on,” I say.

“There are cuts on Diana’s fingers.”

“Defensive wounds?”

“No. They’re on the side of her palms.”

She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t have to.

“Consistent with her pushing in a knife and having her hand slip and nick the blade.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Casey. I wish I could give you something to suggest she was framed.”

“But you can’t.”

She shakes her head.

Dalton is walking me home when someone calls, “Detective Butler!” and I tense, recognizing that voice.

Dalton turns, saying, “No, Isabel.”

“I’d like to speak to—”

“Casey has not slept. She needs—”

“It’s okay,” I say. I turn to face Isabel. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I mean it even more when I get a good look at her. She’s not wearing makeup and she’s still dressed from yesterday, her clothing dishevelled and stained as if she’s spilled coffee or a drink. I remember how Mick talked about her. Not a guy looking for a sugar mama. A guy in love. In Isabel’s face, I see proof that the love went both ways.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I can assure you we’re putting everything we can into finding his killer—”

“You already have.”

My head jerks up.

“It’s Diana, isn’t it? You found her with him, in that fire.”

“Which does not mean—”

“Of course it does. She lured him there. Mick said you were asking about her turning tricks. I wanted to speak to you about that directly and…” A flash of grief. “I didn’t get to it nearly as quickly as I should have. It was no misunderstanding, Casey. She was acting out, in so many ways, and that was just one of them.”

“You think that’s why she’d lure Mick?” I ask.

“I know if she said she wanted to talk to him about it, he’d have met with her. Is that a motive for murder? I barely dare hazard a guess. Something’s come loose in that girl’s head. I suspect it was always only a little wobbly before, because otherwise you wouldn’t have been friends with her. But since Diana’s arrived here, it’s broken, and you know it. That’s why you backed off.”

I open my mouth to answer, but Isabel continues. “Diana lured Mick there and killed him.”

“They had sex,” Dalton says.

“Bullshit. Mick would never—”

“There were signs he’d had sex shortly before his death.”

“With
me
, Eric. In the backroom about an hour before he left.”

“While the Roc was still open?”

“Is that a crime?”

Dalton crosses his arms. “You left the bar unattended and had sex in the backroom with your boyfriend, who wasn’t feeling well.”

“He was feeling fine then.”

“Then I’d suggest you get your ass to the doc’s to confirm that for our report.”

“Confirm it how? He wore a condom.”

“Produce the condom.” Dalton nudges me. “We’ll talk to you later, Isabel.”

“It’s about Diana.” She steps between us to face me. “Information I’ve been debating telling you, because you already don’t like me very much, and this won’t help. But it’s something you need to know.”

“It can wait,” Dalton says. “Casey’s so tired she can barely stay upright.”

“No, I…” I want to say I’ll handle it, but I can’t. “I’m sorry. Eric’s right. Whatever it is, right now, I’d probably only hear half of it.”

“Then I’ll talk to
you
, Eric,” she says.

He exhales. “I’m just as tired, and I want to get Casey home before we both fall over.”

“Will!” Isabel calls.

I see Anders down the road. He looks as if he’d been heading our way but was stopped by a citizen. He says a few quick words to the woman and then hurries to us.

“Will, could you please walk Casey home?” Isabel says. “She’s exhausted, and I need to speak to Eric.”

Dalton hesitates and then says, “Yeah, okay, walk her home. Make sure she gets in bed.”

“Alone,” Isabel calls as we start to go.

Anders flips her the finger.

“You get some rest, too, Will,” Dalton says.

“I’m fine. You guys need—”

“We
all
need sleep. I’m going home after this, and I’m not coming into the station before two. If either of you sticks your head out before then, people are going to demand a statement. You’ll need to wake me up early to give it. I’ll be pissed.”

Anders smiles. “All right. See you at two, then.”

Once we’re back at my place, Anders comes in, and I get halfway across my living room and it’s like my battery cuts out. I just stop. Then I start to shake. Anders is there in a blink, his arms going around me, and I try to brush him off, to say I’m fine, but he says, “Bullshit,” and hugs me tighter, until I give up and let myself fall against him.

I don’t cry. I want to, for the first time since those months in the hospital. But tears don’t come. Instead, I just shake harder, as much as I try to stop. After a couple of minutes, Anders leans down and whispers, “It’s about Diana, right?”

I nod, and I don’t elaborate, and he just keeps hugging me, and as the shaking stops, I become keenly aware of him, the smell of him and the feel of him, that rock-solid presence and the beat of his heart, and I think of more than a hug.

I think of complete distraction, of sex with a great guy who’d give it and understand it was just the moment and expect nothing more. All I need to do is give a sign. Touch his hip. Press against him. Some small signal that he can choose to act on or not, and if he chooses no, then the moment passes without awkwardness.

I don’t make that move. I know why I don’t, and I choose not to pursue that reason, not to analyze it, because if I think about it too much, I’ll decide it’s a damned stupid excuse and, really, if that’s the reason I’m holding back, then it’s also the reason I should push forward, because
that’s
not happening, that shouldn’t happen, and this is the better choice. No, that’s not true. This is the safer choice. This is the one that won’t break my heart.

Anders kisses the top of my head. Then my forehead. Just light, fraternal kisses, but that’s
his
move, his sign. All I have to do is lift my face from his chest, tilt it up, and let him put those kisses on my lips. I don’t, and he gives my forehead one last kiss. Then I step away.

“I should get to bed,” I say. “Let you go.”

“Yes,” he says. “You should get to bed. As for letting me go?” He takes my face between his hands. “I’m always here for you, Casey. If you need me, I’m here. If you don’t? I’ll still be here.”

He kisses my forehead again, and I know he’s telling me, whether I want more or not, he’ll still be there. Which is, I think, the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me, and I wish … But there’s no sense wishing, because it’s only going to make me feel guilty and stupid—too stupid to take the damned good thing that’s right in front of me, stupid enough to hold out for something I’m not going to get. That’s the way it is, though, and one thing I won’t be stupid enough to do? Tell myself I’m wrong and hurt Anders when it turns out I’m not.

“I’m going to crash here,” he says, and waves to the couch. “Okay?”

I nod and smile. “Okay,” I say, then I hug him and tell him thanks, a deep and genuine thanks, before I head upstairs.

I’m too exhausted to think about Diana. That does not, however, mean that I have a long and restful slumber. I set my alarm for one-thirty, but I’m up an hour sooner, waking from a nightmare.

I’m sure Diana would not commit cold-blooded murder. She wouldn’t even do what I had—kill someone in the heat of the moment. Could a combination of booze and rydex have sent her into a murderous rage? I want to say no—that someone framed her. But I find that nearly as impossible to believe as Beth does. Which leaves only one conclusion. That something has snapped in Diana, and I saw it snap, and I backed off, like Isabel said. Which makes whatever happened partly my fault.

In that distracted state of mind, I make my way downstairs. I’m walking through the living room when I see a figure sitting on my couch, and I jump back fast before I realize it’s Anders. He’s sitting on my sofa and staring at me … dressed only in my panties.

I know it’s not my almost-naked body that has his attention. It’s the scars.

I mumble an apology and hightail it back up the stairs. Anders follows, rapping on my door and saying, “Shit, I’m sorry, Casey, that was—”

“—one hundred percent my fault,” I say as I yank on some clothes. “I forgot you were down there.”

“Still, I wasn’t exactly being a gentleman and looking away, which is why I’m apologizing.”

“There are a lot of scars.”

It takes him a moment to reply. “No, I never noticed— I mean, you were naked, so I was—”

I crack open the door, hiding behind it as I smile for him. “It’s okay. I know what I look like.”

“You’re beautiful. Hell, I have scars. Yours surprised me, sure, but it doesn’t make you any less—”

“And we’ll stop there,” I say, my smile turning genuine. “I appreciate the flattery, but let’s not make this any more awkward.”

“It’s not flattery. I…” He takes a deep breath. “And
that’s
not making this any less awkward. Can I fix you a late breakfast?”

I nod and withdraw.

I come down as Anders is finishing the coffee.

“It happened in college,” I say, standing in the doorway. “My boyfriend was dealing drugs on someone else’s turf. We got jumped by a few guys. My boyfriend took off. I spent six weeks in the hospital. I went to confront him afterward, and made the mistake of bringing a gun.”

It’s the first time I’ve said that to anyone outside therapy, and my heart is thumping so hard I can barely breathe.

“Shitty boyfriend,” he says as he brings me a coffee.

I sputter a laugh. “Yes, but not really the point of that confession.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.”

“You don’t seem surprised. You knew?”

He takes eggs from the counter. “No, but if someone asked me why you were here, I’d have said you did something to someone who damned well deserved it. Which doesn’t make it any easier.” He looks at the eggs in his hand. “Scrambled?”

“Sure.”

“Good, ’cause that’s all I can make.” He takes out a pan, puts it on the blazing wood stove. “Mine was in the military. I killed someone who
didn’t
deserve to die. At all. I screwed up. Big time.”

“I’ve heard it happens over there.”

He nods and turns away as he cracks the eggs.

“Which doesn’t make it any easier,” I say.

“Nope, it doesn’t.” He tosses the shells into the compost box. “Does being
here
make it easier for you?”

I nod. “It does. Like I said, it happened in college, so it’s old news. But…”

“It never goes away.”

“It still hasn’t, and maybe this is just me hiding and pretending things are better—”

“Don’t analyze. Eric does enough of that for both of us.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Which helps,” Anders says. “Though I’d never admit it to him. He can be a pain in the ass, telling you exactly what your problem is, but some of us need that more than a therapist’s couch. Someone who won’t let us hide. When I came here…” He shakes his head. “I was a fucking mess. I didn’t want to be here. Same as you—yeah, Diana told me you came to Rockton for her. I came because the one person who thought I was worth saving—my sister—put my ass on the plane, and I’d already let her down too much to ever do it again. Then I got here and…”

He sits across the table from me. “I know it’s a cliché, but Eric saved me. When my term’s up, I only hope that I’ve made myself useful enough that I can stay and keep repaying that debt. And, yeah, that’s partly because I don’t want to go back. I’m happy here. But I do owe him. I owe him big, and anything he wants from me? It’s his.”