“I figured you would.”
SIXTEEN
Next I need to talk to Émilie. I’d said that I’d get to her right after the autopsy. I can argue that I wanted to run my theories past my fellow law enforcement officers first, and that’s partly true, but it’s also me being territorial and obstinate. Émilie wants to be the bridge between us and the council, just as Phil does. Everyone wants to smooth things over so we can all work together, put our differences aside to focus on Rockton and its residents.
In theory, that is good. In theory, it is excellent, and at one time, I’d have led the charge for unity. Yet the council has screwed us so often that the push for cooperation has started to feel like victim-blaming—if we’d just stop causing trouble, they’d stop punishing us.
I do believe there are elements in the council—like Émilie—that we can work with. I also believe there are elements we can’t, and since we only speak to Tamara, we can’t mentally sort the good from the bad from the indifferent. Other than Émilie, they are a homogeneous blob of negative experiences that I cannot trust. So in talking to Dalton and Anders first, I am saying these people are my priority. Protecting Rockton means communicating with my proven allies before anyone else.
When I go to talk to Émilie, I take Storm. She serves vital law enforcement purposes beyond guarding and tracking. She’s a comfort animal when needed and, in this case, she’s distraction and diversion. Nothing says “this is just a pleasant conversation” like bringing along your dog.
I’m halfway to Petra’s place when Storm gives a happy bark and races forward to meet Petra herself, out walking.
This winter, Petra took an arrow to the chest, and while she seems fine, I’m not sure how much of that is a true full recovery and how much is just Petra toughing it out. When we draw near, Petra drops to one knee and spreads her arms, a sign that allows Storm to embrace her, paws over Petra’s shoulders as they hug. Petra pats Storm and then rises, making an exaggerated show of spitting fur from her mouth.
“I do believe your puppy needs a brushing,” she says as I walk over.
“Weirdly, it hasn’t been high on my priority list this week.”
“Which is why I’m offering to do it for you.”
“Are you sure? Looks like you’ll be busy entertaining a guest.”
“Yeah. About that, I didn’t know she was coming. Not that I’d have been able to talk her out of it, but I’d have warned you.”
“I know.”
Less than a year ago, I’d thought how wonderful it was to have such an uncomplicated friendship. Then I learned that the smart, stable, drama-free comic-book artist I’d befriended was a former special ops agent.
As Petra argued, that was just one aspect of her, an aspect unrelated to our friendship, and what I saw was the real her. I’ve come to accept that—not only about Petra but about pretty much everyone in Rockton.
I use the analogy of the internet. On it, you can present whatever version of yourself you choose. While you can be a better person online—kinder and wittier and more open-minded than you are in real life—it’s easier to be your worst self, freed from expectations. An acquaintance who knows not to joke about cats in Chinese food when he’s near me may feel perfectly comfortable sharing those jokes online … or sharing Asian fetish porn with my face attached. Yes, I had that happen, from a colleague I’d thought was a decent guy.
Rockton is the internet in real life. Be the person you want to be, with no fear of long-term consequences. You can reinvent yourself, like Kenny, the high-school math teacher who decided to hone his carpentry skills while pumping weights as if it were his job. He became the buff, tough head of Rockton’s militia. Except … well, “tough” is a word I’d only apply to Kenny in the most positive sense. He doesn’t back down from trouble. He’s never complained about his injury, and he worked his ass off to get back on the militia legitimately, not as a pity post. Yet underneath the new exterior, he’s still the sweet and somewhat awkward guy I suspect he’s always been.
That’s the thing about Rockton. We can pretend to be someone new, but truth still outs. We are our real selves, for better or worse, because anything else is exhausting and pointless. The Petra before me is still the Petra I knew a year ago, even if it’s uncomfortable to admit that after her lies.
I continue, “Your grandmother’s arrival is a surprise all around. Phil is going to have a conniption.”
She snickers. “‘Conniption’ is exactly the right word. Poor guy.”
“Any chance I can get some advice?” I ask. “For dealing with her.”
“That’s why I’m here. I was watching to see when you started heading toward my place so I could intercept. I told Émilie I’m grabbing a snack at the bakery before it closes. Join me?”
“Yes, please.”
* * *
“We can skip the part where you tell me I can trust your grandmother,” I say. “I already expect to hear that.”
When she doesn’t answer, I look over to see her mouth set with concern.
“Are you actually going to warn me that I can’t trust her?” I say.
“No, but…” She shoves her hands into her jean pockets. “You can trust that Émilie only does what she perceives to be in Rockton’s best interests.”
“Uh-huh. Everything the council does is apparently in Rockton’s best interests.”