I pause. Then I curse. “Yes, of course. We told him we’d taken the gun and satellite phone. I totally forgot about it.”
“So if Petra works for the council, Phil shows up, hands her the gun, unlocks the door, and she slips out the back. Straight into the forest.”
“Where we’re bringing in Garcia.”
TWENTY-SIX
Anders is certain Dalton’s in the station, but when I walk in, there’s no sign of him. I’m looking around when hands close around my waist. I jump as Dalton pulls me into an embrace.
“Have I warned you about sneaking up on me?” I say.
He hops onto the desktop and kicks his heels against the desk, legs swinging like a kid’s. “Missed you.”
“Uh-huh. Someone’s in a very good mood. Had a productive afternoon, I take it?”
“Nope. Had such a fucking shitty and utterly pointless afternoon that the mere sight of you—even when you’re annoyed with me—puts me into an exceptionally good mood.”
I lift my brows. Then I spot the tequila bottle on the desk.
“Ouch,” I say. “That bad, huh?”
He gives a half shrug. The tequila is mine. Dalton isn’t accustomed to hard liquor. He’ll drink it only with me, when he’s free to be like this, a little carefree, a little boyish.
“It was drink a shot of tequila or collapse on the floor sobbing,” he says. “I don’t think anyone needs to see me cry.”
I press between his knees and put my hands around his neck. “Wanna talk about it?”
Another half shrug. “I’m being silly. Tired and frustrated and slightly punch-drunk. I got nothing from the neighbors. No one saw a damned thing. I was hoping to bring you a lead, and I hit a brick wall so yeah, I’m tired, frustrated, punch-drunk, maybe even a little actual drunk.”
“Well, I have leads. First, though, we need to talk about April.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Fuck. What’s she done now?”
“Nothing. She’s actually on her best behavior. But it’s Sunday, Eric, and we have to get her to Dawson tomorrow.”
He nods. “I know, and we will. We should go to Dawson anyway. You wanted to research Garcia, and there are a few background stories I’d like to verify.”
“April wonders whether she’ll be allowed to go.”
“What? Fuck, yeah, she can leave. We don’t need a doctor badly enough to kidnap her. And not badly enough to want her.”
“She means the council. Since we snuck her in—and now she’s a suspect—will they let her leave?”
He groans, and his gaze slides to the bottle. He doesn’t reach for it, though. Even his glance over is a joke. Law enforcement and isolated northern communities are both known for alcohol abuse. Being law enforcement in a northern community? That’s a trap we don’t even want to skirt. Anders already drinks more than we’d like him to. It’s not alcoholism—Dalton wouldn’t put up with that—but here, it doesn’t take much to worry us.
“Does April have a reason to be concerned?” I ask.
He exhales, air hissing between his teeth as he leans back and studies the timbered ceiling for answers.
“Fuck,” he says. In other words, yes. Like me, he hasn’t considered this, but now that he does, he sees treacherous ground ahead.
“I promised her, Eric,” I say.
“We both did. Don’t go making this about you. I want my share of the blame.”
He leans back far enough to almost collapse on the desktop before he rights himself.
I chuckle. “How many shots did you have?”