“No,” Émilie says. “She cultivated a friendship with Casey. The person. In Petra’s former job, they knew better than to send her undercover to cozy up to targets. It isn’t her skill set. Her friendship with you was real, and if you felt—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly.
“Fuck, yes, it matters,” Dalton says. “You were hurt. Anyone would be.”
Émilie meets my gaze. “Endangering your friendship hurt her more than you can know, Casey, but a little part of her, I think, was glad of it. Not to lose you as a friend, but to burn away the lies. To be who she really is, at least with you. To share the parts of herself that you two have in common.”
“None of that matters right now,” I say. “This isn’t Casey-Petra relationship therapy. It’s me convincing you that she came back here. I told her my theory, and she didn’t deny it. She granted me that much, and I hope you’ll do the same. But knowing that the truth was out, she saw an opportunity to protect you, and she took it. I don’t blame her for that.”
“How does this protect me?”
I don’t answer. I can’t without telling her what I know, and that will come later. Soon.
When I don’t respond, Émilie shakes her head. “That isn’t what’s happening here.”
“Then what is?”
“I-I don’t know.”
Émilie fidgets, and in her face, I don’t see the turmoil of an old woman telling herself her granddaughter wouldn’t do that. When I worked special victims, I cannot count the number of times I sat across the table from parents, telling them what their teenage son did, watching Dad explode in righteous fury as Mom retreated into sick horror and grief. I’ve heard the snarled cries of “Not my child,” while the look in their eyes quietly whimpers, “Oh, God, what has he done?”
This is not that look. This is the look of a parent genuinely struggling to find another explanation, firm in their conviction that there must be one.
Émilie straightens. “You say this man has been blinded. You’d left to help Eric, and it was getting dark, and I’m presuming the storm had passed by then. Petra’s bringing him back for medical care. She saw the sun dropping and knew you and Eric would be fine.”
“And the fact she led him through a stream?”
“They had to cross it.”
“We didn’t cross a stream coming from Rockton, so when she reached it, she’d know they’d gone the wrong way. The water is barely above freezing. They waded in near-freezing water to lose Storm.”
“I … I don’t know what the answer is, Casey, but I know Petra was not running away.”
“Not running. Coming to protect you. And before you keep denying it, you need to hear what I told her, Émilie.”
THIRTY-ONE
As I tell my story, Dalton makes coffee, knowing there’s no chance we’re getting to bed tonight. I step through the full story, from Maryanne’s description of the tea to the research we’ve done to Josie’s tale. I leave nothing out, even the bits Émilie has already heard.
There’d been a time in my life when I dreamed of getting a doctorate, or at least a master’s degree. Then my career took off, and I found plenty of other opportunities to expand my education. I knew people who’d gotten those higher degrees, though, and it involves defending your thesis, the culmination of your studies.
This is my thesis, the project I’ve been working on since I first came to Rockton. And this is me, defending my dissertation, to the person with the knowledge and experience to shoot it down.
When I finish, every muscle is tense, waiting for Émilie to do exactly that. Shoot me down. Laugh even. She won’t mock me, but I will see mockery. I am the doctoral student no one expected to get this far. I’m just not smart enough, see? My parents always told me so. My sister always told me so. I don’t have what it takes, and if I overreach, I’ll embarrass myself.
I hold myself like there’s a bomb in my gut, ready to explode at a single touch. And I’m not the only one. I see the set of Dalton’s jaw, the steel in his gaze. He’s a watchdog straining at his chain. Even Storm, who’d napped as I spoke, is awake and shifting, sensing the tension in the air.
Émilie does nothing. Says nothing. Just sits there, watching me as if I’m still talking. Or watching me as if there’s more to come. Surely there must be more. Maybe I’ll burst into laughter and tell her it’s a prank. Or I’ll start blaming space aliens so she can chalk my mad theory up to delusions. Too long in the bush, and I snapped.
With each passing second, I tense a little more, the bomb inside me buzzing, so close to triggering. It’s coming. I know it’s coming, and I want to handle it without exploding … and I’m not sure I can.
I know I’m right.
No, I knew I was right as I stood in the forest and saw Petra’s face. Now the fear creeps in again. Like marking down an answer on an exam that you’re absolutely sure of, only to later second-guess.
Should I have couched my theory in question marks? Acted like it was only a hypothesis?
No. I believe in my facts, and I must stand up for them. I might have a detail or two wrong, but the overall theory is sound. I’m sure of it.