She pauses for a moment and then continues. “Mike lost his daughter, and he lost his mind. I don’t blame him—I did, too. But he had a target for his grief and rage. Me. He just … He could not cope, and everything that I turned inward, he turned on me. All the blame. All the hate. He became a man I’d never seen before. He told people—family, friends—that I’d never wanted a child. That’s true, but he twisted it to sound as if I might have somehow done this on purpose.”
She takes deep breaths, eyes closed, and in her face, I see the woman I saw that time in the cave, when she found Abbygail’s arm. I remember her scream, and that look, and I remember thinking there must be trauma in her past. Now I know there was. And I don’t even want to imagine what she saw that day with her daughter.
She continues. “I couldn’t go to Polly’s funeral. I didn’t dare—after what he was saying, it would be like spitting on her grave. He told everyone about my drinking. Made it sound so much worse. I tested well below the legal limit after the accident, but he told them I was a chronic alcoholic and he pretended I’d hidden it from him. Even that wasn’t enough. He went to my very conservative, very religious grandparents and told them about my girlfriends. Told them I was bisexual. Which, yes, I am, but there was no reason for me to tell them. So when I needed my family most…”
She takes more deep breaths. “He was in so much pain. I know that, and I forgive him. At the time, though, it felt like I’d been hit by a truck, and Mike just kept backing up and running over me. I snapped. I wanted to be gone. To not exist. It felt like the only answer. I decided to kill myself. The question was how to do it. I needed a foolproof plan. The only thing that could make my situation worse would be to fail, to be found alive and have people to think that it’d been a weak and desperate cry for help. Like Paul—swallow a few pills, knowing it’s not enough to kill you.”
She pauses. “That’s not fair. I don’t know Paul’s situation, and I shouldn’t judge it. I wanted to kill myself, and I delayed while I perfected the method. During that delay, my grandmother swooped in and snatched me away.”
“The one Mike talked to?”
She shakes her head. “That’s my dad’s family. This is Mom’s. My gran and gramps—Dad’s parents—were stereotypical grandparents. They lived in the country, and I’d spend a month there every summer, learning to garden and bake cookies. Nan was different. Our summer vacations were a week in Paris or New York. I was in awe of her, and no matter how warm and kind she was, I always felt a distance between us. She was the sort of woman I wanted to be, and that’s intimidating. When Polly died, she was overseas. She flew back, assessed the situation, and had me kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?”
A soft laugh. “Yep. She knew me, better than I ever imagined, and she knew exactly how to handle the situation. Like a tactical maneuver. Scoop me up, take me to a mountain retreat—a secure mountain retreat—and give me a month of support and tough love. Like a detox center f
or a life that’s gone toxic.”
“Your grandmother did that?”
“Well, she didn’t kidnap me herself. She was eighty-two. But she stayed with me at that mountain retreat, giving me that love and support. She knew me, and she knew what I needed.” Her voice falls again as she looks around. “She always knew what I needed, even when I wasn’t sure myself.”
“She got you here, I’m guessing.”
“She brought me here.”
“Émilie.”
Her chin jerks up. Then her lips curve in a small smile. “You’re quick.”
“I’m a detective.”
She chuckles under her breath. “True. I was never good at that part. Show me a target and tell me what to do, and I can figure out how to proceed. Just don’t ask me to pick a target. Don’t ask me to decide guilt or innocence. I used to tell myself that makes it easier. I am the weapon. Nothing more. That works until you realize you’re not made of metal. You have a brain, and you can’t help using it. You wonder. You question. Then it seems it’d be better to be in your shoes, where you evaluate and decide. Except then it’s a choice, like with Val. You chose to shoot her. I acted on orders. Brady and Val were both guilty. My conscience is clean—I did as I was told. Yours is troubled—you made a choice.”
“Is this your way of not answering the question about Émilie?”
Petra laughs again. “You weren’t asking, Casey. You were stating a fact. Showing off a little, but I’ll give you that. You earned it. Yes, Émilie is my grandmother. She told me about Rockton. Told me more about it, I should say. I’d always known it existed—it’s family history. She asked if I wanted to come to Rockton and resume my old life. To be her agent on the ground. It was my decision. My choice. There are no illusions between us. I’ve killed before. I will do it again, for the right reason. I feel no guilt over Brady. She understands that. If I’m a hard-assed bitch, I come by it honestly. The hardness, that is. The toughness. The clean, clear-cut decision making, where the greater good stands above pointless moral navel gazing. Brady was a murderer and a threat. I took him out. My only regret is that you saw me, and it ruined the best friendship I’ve had in a very long time.”
She looks up at me. “Émilie is the best of Rockton. She is its heart and its brain. But her health is failing, and others are taking advantage. That’s why I’m coming to you with this. For Rockton. It’s what she’d want.”
I nod. It’s all I can do. I need time to process all this. When silence falls, she shakes it off and rises from the log. Then she crouches and tugs a handful of moss from a knot in the fallen tree. She sticks her hand into the hole and pulls out a gun. When I go for mine, she lifts her free hand.
“It isn’t loaded,” she says. “I’m just taking it out to show you that this is the cache. It’s one of several we’ve used since I got here. There’s an extra gun and ammo. There was a vial, with the drugs. The mushrooms were here, too, for me to plant so you’d think that’s what Roy took. The council has these caches, and when they need me to use something from them, I get my orders. Presumably, if I take something like ammo, they’ll refill it, though last week was the first time I discharged my weapon.”
“You’ve had it, though. In Rockton.”
She nods. “In a safe place, in case I ever needed to use it in an emergency.”
“And the vial you removed?”
“Discarded immediately afterward. My orders were to destroy it. I followed my orders. That’s what I was taught, and it’s what I’ve done here, because I’ve had no reason not to, until now.”
“Is there more of that drug in there?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” She reaches into the hollow tree, up to her shoulder. She removes a rucksack and ammo, a field knife, a rifle and scope. She points at the rifle. “Never used. I’m hoping Val confessed to being your sniper.”
“She did.”