As callous as it sounds, I’ve learned not to pay too much notice to the new arrivals until they make themselves noteworthy, for better or worse. I don’t know who Jay was or what he did for a living down south, but whatever skills he possesses, they aren’t critical up here, so he’s been assigned to general duty, meaning I’m unlikely to have much contact with him unless he turns out to be a troublemaker. Jay’s pressed clothing and quiet demeanor, though, set my threat rating at low.
Escorting them to Rockton is the extent of law enforcement’s initial involvement with newcomers. With Phil—our council liaison before being exiled to Rockton last year—we have a quasi leader for the first time in over a decade. I say “quasi” because Dalton is still the guy in charge. Phil doesn’t even take second place. That goes to the woman he’s currently sleeping with: Isabel, whose power comes from controlling sex, alcohol, and secrets, the most potent currency in town.
“I was told to come by for a physical,” he says as he turns to Diana. “You’re not Dr. Butler, are you?”
“I’m her assistant. I can perform the physical basics, but I think Casey is a little more interested in what you said when you walked in.”
Diana turns to the woman in the bed, who’s whispering to herself. “That’s not German?”
Jay offers a half smile. “No, sorry. Close, though. It’s Danish.”
“Please tell us you know Danish. Please, please, please…”
Jay’s smile widens, and in that moment, with this champagne-bubbly blonde pleading with him to know Danish, I think if he didn’t, he’d promise to run out and learn it for her.
He gives an awkward chuckle. “You’re in luck. I’m not fluent, but my mom is Danish, and she taught me enough to carry on a conversation. I’m presuming she”—a nod toward the woman—“doesn’t speak English. That’s unusual for a Dane.”
“Her injury led to some mental confusion,” I say.
If he interprets this to mean she’s a resident who temporarily lost a language, I’m okay with that. I’m not eager to tell Jay that the place where he was promised privacy and security has admitted an outsider.
I continue, “We’re trying to figure out exactly what happened, and she’s eager to tell us but…”
“You need a translator. Guess I came by at the right time.” He looks at the patient. “She seems to be asking about someone. I can’t quite make it out though.”
I turn to the woman. She’s whispering under her breath, eyelids sagging, as if her violent outburst sapped her energy.
“Hey,” I say, clasping her hand. “We have someone who can talk to you.”
“Jeg snakker dansk,” Jay says, walking over.
The woman levers up, her still-bound left hand snapping against the restraint. Jay jumps back, but she grabs his sleeve and hauls him to her, fever-bright eyes burning.
I catch her hand, but Jay shakes his head. “It’s okay. She just startled me. I’m guessing those…” He looks at the restraints and gives a soft, strained laugh. “No violent criminals in Rockton, right? That’s what the brochure said.” His laugh turns awkward again as he adds, “Not that there was a brochure,” as if we might not get the joke.
“I totally got the brochure,” Diana says. “Full-color. Glossy. It p
romised a hot tub.” She turns to me. “You know anything about a hot tub here, Case?”
I lift my middle finger, and she laughs and says, “There is a hot tub, but it belongs to the sheriff. He catches you in it without permission?” She draws a line across her throat. “It’s a real tease, having it here. I don’t know who would have gotten it for him. Some sadist.”
Her gaze shoots my way, and Jay laughs louder than the joke deserves. I tell him that the patient is fine—she just had an episode of delirium—and he nods and turns to her, having forgotten his question about violent criminals in Rockton.
Thank you, Diana.
Jay clasps the woman’s shoulder and murmurs something soothing in Danish. She leans toward him, her lips parted, enrapt. She’s in a strange place with people who don’t speak her language and now finally someone does. She listens until he’s finished, and then I expect a fresh stream of frantic Danish, but she only pauses.
“Can you ask her name?” I say.
His voice rises in what is obviously a question.
“Sophie,” she says.
“Good,” I murmur. “Can you ask her what happened to her? She was injured outside Rockton.”
He turns to Sophie, who hangs there, patiently waiting for the next question. Yet as soon as he asks, her agitation returns as she white-knuckles his hand, gaze locked on his, her words spilling out.
As he listens, his brow furrows. Finally, he lifts a finger to his lips and says something calming, reassuring. Then he turns to me.