He’s right. Whatever he’s done, he still hasn’t zoomed to the top of my suspect list. This particular crime doesn’t fit him. I’m still open to the possibility, though, so I say, “Convince me.”
He clears his throat, as if preparing for a rehearsed speech. “Okay, well, if he really is a marshal, that has nothing to do with me. You know my crime. I’ve served my full sentence. Whether justice has been done is another matter, but the court system says I’m free. Also my crimes were committed in Canada. However, there’s the possibility he’s not a marshal. I’m sure you investigated that while in Dawson City. Even if he is, that doesn’t mean he was here as a marshal.”
He states this as if it should be obvious. I hope my surprise—and chagrin—doesn’t show.
He continues. “If he’s not here for a fugitive, he’d be here to collect someone for another reason. Are there people who think I shouldn’t be out walking around? Of course. That’s why I’m in Rockton. But if the justice system is done with me, then the only reason to come after me is to either expose me or execute a higher punishment. Plenty of people wanted to expose me. Again, that’s why I’m here. But they’re not going to pay a bounty hunter to drag me back. And the only people I hurt…” His gaze shunts to the side. “They’re dead. Nobody … No one else gave a damn, except about the money, and there was barely enough of that left to buy my way up here. Anyone who had any claim to it knows it’s gone, and no one else really had a claim.”
He meets my gaze again. “That’s my defense against being this guy’s target. I know he didn’t come for me, so I had no reason to kill him. Even if you don’t believe that, shooting him makes no sense. I’ve been in jail since I was eleven. I got out less than a year ago, and there’s no way in hell anyone would let me take marksmanship lessons or join a gun club. I don’t exactly pass security checks.” His lips quirk in a not-quite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Our gun laws don’t mean it’s impossible to get access to them. You spent years in juvenile facilities. Enough to make contacts. Enough to pose as a drug-dealing, car-thieving street kid.”
He gives a bitter laugh. “Yeah, and I pulled that off so well. I thought it’d be easy. You’re right—for seven years, I lived with kids like that. When I was told to come up with a story for the sheriff here, I figured I could fake that well enough, as long as I kept my head down. And how long did it take you to see through it? Two minutes? I could tell I’d blown my cover, which is why I came out here to see if you’d found me online.”
I say nothing.
He continues. “Yes, I lived with those guys, but as you could tell by my lame story, we weren’t exactly BFFs. Those were kids who sold dope or turned tricks to survive. I was a rich brat who murdered his parents because they wouldn’t let him go to school. I scared them, and not in a good, respectful way. Even if I wanted a gun, none of them would sell me one, not at any price. So I can’t shoot. I barely know which end the bullets come out of. I know you’re going to need to keep me in mind as a suspect, and I’m okay with that. I’m not your killer. My bigger concern is that I am a killer, and you know it. What are we going to do about that?”
“What should I do?”
That direct look again, almost chillingly mature. “Send me back ‘down south’ as you say. If I were you, in charge of keeping people safe, I wouldn’t want me here. But I’m me, and I know what I’m capable of, and I also know what I’m likely to do, and those are two very different things.”
“Are they?”
“I’m not eleven years old anymore, Detective Butler. I could say that I didn’t know what I was doing at that age, but that would be a lie. I can hope I’m not the same person who did those things but…” He holds my gaze. “I’ve spent seven years working on not being that person, on overcoming what is missing in here.” He taps his head. “Learning strategies to deal with my condition. I have had help—amazing help—and I’d like to think that your council checked with my therapists before they approved my application, and that they would never let me come up here if they thought I was dangerous.”
“Do you worry that you’re dangerous?”
It takes him a long time to answer that. “Do I worry that I’ll flip out and knife some guy who cuts me off in the coffee line? Absolutely not. Do I worry that if someone knifed me in the coffee line, I’d retaliate with worse? Yes. I murdered my parents. I have not denied it since those first attempts to cover up my crime. I can never undo what I did. I can never promise that, under the right—or wrong—circumstances, I wouldn’t do it again. I know you don’t understand that. You can’t.”
Again, I hope I don’t react. I hope I am as stone-faced as I try to be. If I’m not, he doesn’t seem to notice.
“You’re here to escape t
hat,” I say. “But no one exposed you. You weren’t hiding.”
He lets out a laugh far too bitter for a nineteen-year-old. “I was hiding from the moment they released me. We had to use decoys to get me out. And then I was just…” He shrugs. “On my own. I won’t whine about that. As far as most people are concerned, I should still be behind bars, and I don’t disagree. I’m glad I’m not, obviously, but…”
“Freedom isn’t quite what you expected?”
That harsh laugh, almost choking on it now. “God, I was an idiot. They kept me isolated in there—from what went on with my case. I figured by now, no one cared, and I’d be a real boy, like fucking Pinocchio.” He looks up sharply. “Sorry. I don’t mean to swear.” A long pause, and then a hint of that laugh again. “The kid who murdered his parents, apologizing for cursing. Fucking hell.”
He goes quiet, as if collecting himself, and I don’t interrupt. When he’s ready, he says, “I thought once I was out, I could go to school. Yes, I’m still that kid. The boy who wanted to go to school the way other kids wanted to go to Disney World. I have my high school diploma. I graduated with a ninety-eight percent average. Clearly, I would get my dream. I’d go to Western for my undergrad, and then off to law school at Queen’s. The boy-murderer who became a public prosecutor. A good news story. A story no one, as it turns out, wants to hear. They want the story of the monster, unleashed again on the world and—”
He bites his lip hard enough that blood wells. He looks up at me. “Sorry. That’s whining again. I don’t want to be like that. I try very, very hard not to. No excuses. No feeling sorry for myself.”
There’s a blur of movement behind him, and my head jerks up as Dalton steps from behind a tree. He has his gun, but it’s only half raised as he assesses the situation.
“We’re fine,” I say.
A look passes through Sebastian’s eyes, a flash of hope, as if I’m saying this to him. Then he hears Dalton’s footstep and twists, hands still on his head.
“Got concerned when you didn’t make it to town,” Dalton says.
“Sebastian wanted to speak to us,” I say. “He startled me. So…” I wave at his posture. “We’re talking.”
Dalton stays behind Sebastian, off to the side. He’s become adept at hiding his feelings about residents. He has to be. I struggled with that, at first, knowing some of their backstories. I still do. Right now, though, with Sebastian, Dalton is the one who’s struggling, and he’s staying out of sight there until he can hide it.
“Sebastian knows what we found out,” I say. “He figured we’d go looking. That’s why he’s here. To plead his case for why he should be allowed to stay.”