“She’s not difficult on purpose. It’s just difficult for her. Everyone just accepts that it’s her way and writes her off as difficult or rude or thoughtless.”
Now it’s my face heating. I nod. “You’re right. I never considered that it wasn’t a choice. That she might honestly not know how she sounds.”
“I know. So we could ignore it … or we could try to teach her, which feels patronizing, but I’ve talked to her, and she’s fine with that. She doesn’t want to be difficult. Or rude. Or thoughtless.”
“Thank you. You’re good with her.”
He shrugs. “My brother had autism. A much more serious case. He…” Kenny tugs at his sheet, fussing with it. “He’s been gone a long time. We were close. When he was little, my family worked with him, getting him as far as we could. I’m no expert, but I can guide April a little. I’m almost certain she is on the spectrum. I see little hints of my brother’s behavior patterns. She’s far from his situation, though. She’s also an adult, and that’s important to remember, too. She’s a very successful, independent, brilliant adult. She’ll accept guidance, but she shouldn’t be treated like she has a debilitating condition. Not like…” He taps his legs.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “April says the swelling’s going down, and your sensation has improved.”
“It’s not as bad as I feared. It’s not as good as I hoped, either.”
“We still don’t know—”
“It’s okay, Casey. You don’t need to sugarcoat it for me. If I was going to recover one hundred percent, I’d be farther along by now. I’m going to have problems. The question isn’t whether I’ll ever run as fast as I did before. It’s whether I’ll walk with or without braces. My goal is getting back on my feet, one way or another. Otherwise, the council won’t let me stay.”
I open my mouth.
He cuts me off with a look. “No sugarcoating, remember? Rockton can’t handle a wheelchair-bound resident. I need to be mobile, even if I need braces and crutches. I’m ready to do the work. Just cross your fingers for me.”
“They’re already crossed.”
FORTY-TWO
I’m still working at ten, when Dalton brings our poor, neglected dog to the station and points out her poor, neglected state and guilts me into accompanying them on a long forest walk. He’s right, of course. While Roy’s episode added a laundry list of new “things to investigate,” none of it is urgent.
Until I figure out what happened to Roy, I have no idea whether it’s connected to the case. It’s probably not. He’s a bullying asshole, and he’s been getting worse, and it’s entirely possible that someone had enough and doped him in hopes he’d go on a banishment-worthy rampage. If that’s the end result, I am okay with it. Okay with the result, not the way it was done. Mindy suffered in that outburst. Whoever drugged Roy will answer for that.
I have nothing that needs my immediate attention, and my sleep gauge is close to empty, so I agree to that walk with Dalton and Storm. Then I agree to a beer on our back porch while Dalton plays with the dog. After that, I agree to let him play with me upstairs. Okay, “agree” might imply I actually consider refusing. I do not. By midnight, I am soundly and happily asleep.
I wake to the odd sensation of something encircling my wrist. I crack open my eyes to bright sunlight, and I have a momentary flash of alarm, thinking I’ve overslept, before remembering that up here, at this time of year, it’s full sunlight by six. I yawn and reach for Dalton. Whatever encircles my wrist tightens, and I find my other hand following the first as if pulled along. No, not “as if”—it is being pulled along. My wrists are tied together.
There’s not a single second where I wonder whether Dalton’s having some fun. I hesitate to call his sexual style vanilla, because that implies boring, and it’s definitely not. It’s just that kink isn’t really part of his vocabulary. He grew up with minimal exposure to mass media—including porn—and by the time he was eighteen, he had older women eager to initiate him into the world of sex. Many women, very eager. Even if he did develop a sudden interest in bondage play, there’s no way in hell he’d instigate it while I was asleep, unable to refuse. Those women taught him well.
So when that strap tightens, my heart hammers, but I keep my face relaxed, eyes shut. My hands fall onto the bed, as if I’d reached out in sleep. Then I listen. The room stays silent.
I crack open one eye. I’m lying on the right side of the bed, facing the left. Dalton’s spot is empty. On the nightstand, there’s a thermos, and a plate with a muffin and berries. The clock lies facedown. A note is tucked under the plate.
Dalton’s gone. He’s turned off the alarm and left me breakfast. The note will say he’s taken Storm in to work while I sleep.
I’m ready to open my eyes when fabric rustles behind me. A floorboard gives underfoot, not a creak, just a whisper of movement.
My hands are tied in front of me. Plastic cuffs. I know that without even looking. They’re the ones we keep by the boxload in the station, and we have no reason to secure them.
My gun is under the mattress. Close at hand without lying in plain sight. Not close enough to grab. There’s a knife in the nightstand drawer. A penknife, for utility rather than defense. It could cut these cuffs off. I peek at the drawer. Three feet away. I need to throw myself across the bed, roll up onto my feet, get the drawer open, find the knife …
It’d be an excellent plan if I were alone, with my attacker waiting downstairs.
I am not alone.
Another board gives underfoot. The sound comes from the foot of the bed. My captor is walking around it. Moving slowly. Trusting I am asleep but knowing, from my movement a few minutes ago, that I’ll wake soon.
I turn my face in to the pillow with a groan, as if shifting in sleep. I hear breathing now. Slow breathing.
I ease one leg back and brace my foot. My knees are bent, my shoulders twisted, my bound hands against the mattress. The covers lie over my legs, and I consider tossing to get free of them, but I know that’s too much movement. The sheet feels loose. I hope it is.
I have my eyes almost shut, and that means I can see only a shape circling the bed. I desperately want to open them a little more, but I don’t dare. I wait until the figure moves up alongside the bed. Then I spring. I push off with my legs, an awkward leap and roll on a direct trajectory with that figure. It is only as I hit that I see who it is. My shoulder strikes, knocking her back. I kick as hard as I can and then swing both hands—