I arch my brows.
Dalton says, “Well, he wasn’t really a zombie. But he hated it here. Wanted to go home before his two years were up. He was looking for a loophole, and he knew we can’t handle residents with serious mental illnesses. Seems he’d seen a TV special raising money for…” His eyes roll up, accessing his files. “Collard’s syndrome? Cotard’s delusion? Something like that. Anyway, it’s a real illness where people think they’re dead and rotting. He faked that. I convinced him he was wrong, which was much easier than convincing the multiple-personality lady.”
“Do I dare ask what you did?”
He shrugs. “We can’t have rotting residents. That’s unsanitary. So I dug a hole, cuffed him, and tossed him in.”
“Whereupon he had a miraculous recovery.”
“I’m a man of many talents. Especially when it comes to sniffing out bullshit.” He turns to Phil. “You don’t have dissociative identity disorder. And you’re not a zombie. But you were spotted trying to break into Casey’s old place tonight.”
“No, I was not. If someone was, then I would suggest you reconsider Maryanne’s stay in Rockton.”
I eye him. “Would you?”
“Yes. Personally, I have no problem with it, and neither does the council. But, if she’s in danger, then I would suggest you give her supplies and turn her out.”
“In the middle of the night?”
He hesitates.
“How about first thing in the morning?” I say. “Before dawn.”
Phil nods. “That should be acceptable.”
“Really?” Dalton says. “’Cause if you’re worried about a resident attacking her, that would happen at night.”
I hold up a hand against Phil’s protest. “You’re not half bad at this game, Phil. However, the next time you decide to play dress-up, I’d suggest changing your boots. They’re very recognizable. Let’s go sit down and chat, shall we?”
When he doesn’t answer, Dalton and I pull off our outerwear and proceed into the living room.
Phil lowers himself to the sofa. “I don’t see the point of this. Someone spotted a resident attempting to break into your old house, and that resident mistakenly identified my boots.”
I sigh. “I just took off my stuff. Please don’t make me go outside and find the fresh trail you made through the forest to my old house.”
He goes still.
“It’s winter,” Dalton says. “You walked through snow and made a trail that we don’t need Storm to follow. Now, if you need us to prove this, I’ll go
out myself while Casey warms up, but if I find that trail, you’ve just undone every iota of goodwill you might have built since you got here. Trust is—”
“Fine,” Phil says. “It was me. I was curious about Maryanne, and I will admit I went about it the wrong way.”
“Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “You weren’t sneaking in the back door to watch her while she sleeps.”
“You weren’t actually trying to break in at all,” I say. “You knew that door would be locked. You stepped out from behind a tree right when Will passed by. You waited for him, so he’d see you try breaking in. You wanted us to think Maryanne was in danger. You want us to get her out of here before dawn. Why?”
I think I know the answer, but I’m still smarting from my mistake with the hostiles, and so I will hold back here.
“I … I just feel it’s unsafe,” Phil says. “Volatile elements and all that. It seems unwise. I wanted to alert you to the possibility of trouble.”
Dalton leans back on the sofa. “Well, then, next time, just come and tell us. We’re the local law. We’ll decide whether there’s a credible threat. I say there isn’t, so Maryanne stays. In fact, I’m going to encourage her to stick around an extra day and night. Casey and I have a baby’s family to locate, and Maryanne really should get more medical treatment—”
“No,” Phil says. “I’m sorry, but we are not a rehabilitation facility. We can provide emergency aid, and of course we aren’t going to send her into the wilderness without supplies, but she must go by dawn.”
“Why don’t we ask the council about that?” Dalton says. “Dawn is midmorning. We’ll call them at nine and relay your concerns—”
“No, you can’t…”