A Stranger in Town

by Kelley Armstrong

  We don’t try very hard to find the trail again. There’s little point. Petra’s heading to Rockton. Slip in under cover of night, warn Émilie, and the two of them will fly out in her grandmother’s plane. As for why she took Colin, the angry part of me wanted to insist he’s a hostage, in case she needs leverage. The calmer side admits that she likely took him because it would be wrong to abandon a blind man in a forest with hostiles who want him dead. She’ll take him to Rockton and leave him there, safely.

  Petra already has a head start. The creek trick, though, will have cost her time. She’s only done that to ensure we don’t follow her direct trail. Now she’s on her way to town. The only problem? In diverting for the creek, she may stumble around in the general direction of Rockton before finding the trail. So we have an advantage, and we use it, hightailing it to the trail and proceeding along it far faster than a woman leading a blind guy.

  By midnight, we are back in Rockton, and there’s been no sign of Petra and Colin.

  “You go check Petra’s place,” Dalton says. “See if Émilie’s there. I’ll head to the hangar and check on the plane, do a little creative mechanics to make sure it’s not flying out of here tonight.”

  I start to jog off, and he calls, “Take Storm. Just in case.”

  I’m about to joke that I’m not exactly worried about an eighty-year-old woman. Then I remember who I’m talking about, and I gesture for Storm to follow.

  * * *

  Émilie is gone. I’m standing in Petra’s living room, skeleton key in hand, looking around the dark and empty apartment. There’s one bedroom, and from here I can see the bed is made. The tiny bathroom door is open, and no one is in there.

  I walk into the bedroom and pause. There’s a suitcase on the floor. Émilie’s suitcase, the kind of high-end carry-on bag used by savvy and wealthy travelers who don’t want to fuss with checked luggage when they must, ugh, fly commercial.

  Did she leave the bag behind? Certainly possible. With her money, it’s like me not bothering to grab my toothbrush as I flee in the night. Still …

  I look around, as if it’s not past midnight, dark and silent. I heft the bag onto the bed and unzip it. Inside are more containers, packing squares and such. There’s also a leather folder tucked into a zippered pouch. I open it and find myself staring at—

  Holy shit.

  It’s Émilie’s passport.

  I could say it’s fake, but the surname is recognizable as one of the few big-pharma family names I know.

  This is Émilie’s actual passport. Alarm bells sound, the weird compulsion to warn her that she shouldn’t be leaving this around, even in a locked apartment. She needs to be much more careful hiding her real name.

  Of course, it’s to my advantage that she didn’t see the need. It also tells me she hasn’t left Rockton. She’s not fleeing without her passport, especially when we’re guaranteed to find it after she leaves.

  I check my watch. Where the hell would she be? The Roc and the Red Lion are closed.

  Storm and I step outside. There’s no sign of Dalton … or anyone else. I’m heading to the nearest town border, intending to circle around to the hangar, when I catch a flicker of movement. My gun flies out before I realize what I’m doing. It’s not a hostile, of course. It’s a resident, sneaking to or from another resident’s bed.

  I’m sliding my gun back into the holster when the moonlight illuminates just enough of the figure to tell me it’s no resident. Well, it was a resident, once, but that was a very long time ago.

  It’s Émilie.

  Seems there’s more than one secret agent in the family. Émilie’s spy game may not be on par with her granddaughter’s, but she’s clearly not out for an evening stroll. When I mistook her for a resident sneaking from another’s bed, that’s because she’d been outside a resident’s back door. Mathias’s door, to be exact.

  I stride between buildings, and when Émilie walks past, she gives a start, seeing Storm first. Then she spots me and lets out a small laugh.

  “Casey,” she says. “Petra always said your dog looked like a bear, and I didn’t see it until I came around that corner there. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “What are you doing out and about?” I ask.

  Her silver-gray brows arch. “Is there a curfew?”

  “I thought you were unwell.”

  “I was tired. It passed, and now I’m most decidedly not tired. That’s the problem with napping, especially at my age.”

  “Did Mathias have something to help with that?”

  She frowns.

  “He’s a licensed psychiatrist,” I say. “He can write prescriptions for sleeping pills. You don’t need one, though. April will supply them without a script. Around here…” I shrug. “Mathias is just the butcher.” I pause. “Well, maybe a little more, but that can’t be why you went to his house, can it?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Casey. I certainly hope you’re not implying I’m carrying on some kind of illicit liaison.” Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t object in theory, but there’s no one here in my age bracket.”

  “I saw you coming from Mathias’s house.”

  She turns and frowns. “That chalet there? Only essential services get those homes, and I can’t imagine a butcher would qualify.”

  “Oh, Mathias is special. It’s his other job that’s helped him wrangle his prime real estate. He’s a spy for the council. But I’m sure you know that, which is why you were visiting.”

  Silence. A long silence as the wheels turn and she considers her next move. Finally, she exhales and motions for me to follow. I hesitate until I see Dalton. With a wave, I ask him to join us. He does, and he keeps quiet as we walk. I think Émilie is going to take us to Petra’s place, but she keeps walking.

  “I believe you’ll want to continue this conversation in a more private location,” she says. “It may be night, but I fear the soundproofing here may not be what we might require.”

  She starts veering toward our house. I tense, hackles rising, and Storm gives a low growl, as if sensing my reaction. Dalton strides into the lead and turns toward the station instead.

  Émilie sighs loud enough to make her displeasure known, but she says nothing.

  Inside the station, the fire burns low. Dalton stokes it as Émilie settles into the only chair.

  “I might have hoped for more comfortable surroundings,” she says.

  “This is fine,” Dalton says and heads out back, returning with the two patio chairs. We settle into them by the fire, and Storm thumps down between us.

  “Enough dancing around one another,” Émilie says. “Yes, I know Mathias works for the council. I would argue he’s not a spy, but a mental-health monitor. He’s very good at that. As a spy, though, he leaves much to be desired. The only time he’s interested in information-gathering is when he can use it to his own advantage.”

  I keep my expression neutral. Dalton only stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankles and crossing his arms, too. The body language is clear, and he doesn’t care if she knows it.

  Émilie continues. “I was not at Mathias’s house. I truly was just out for a walk.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Our gazes meet. I don’t believe her, but this conversation won’t proceed as long as we lock horns over this.

  “Petra’s gone,” I say.

  When her entire body goes rigid, I realize how that sounded. I should hurry on to clarify. I don’t. I pause, if only for a moment, to throw her off balance.

  I continue, “We found a man in the forest, injured. He’d been the one who dropped the Danes off, and he was searching for them when they missed their pickup. He was attacked by a hostile. While I tended to him, Eric and Storm returned to Edwin’s trail. Petra stayed with me. We got into an argument.”

  Those last words are the ones that truly penetrate. Émilie’s head snaps up, her eyes wide, and I know what she’s thinking. That this is the end of the story. How her g
randdaughter died.

  We got into an argument.

  “I confronted Petra with a theory about the hostiles and your involvement.”

  This is why I am callously dragging out the ending. Because if I uttered those words “your involvement” under any other circumstances, her defenses would fly up in the proper expression of confusion. But all she’s thinking about right now is Petra. She does not react, and that tells me everything.

  I continue. “Eric and Storm ran into trouble in the forest. Hostiles. I heard Storm in distress, so I took off, leaving Petra with the pilot. When we came back, she was gone. They were both gone.”

  “The hostiles took—?”

  “No. Petra was aware they were in the area. We had an encounter ourselves, with the same group that ran into Eric. They were in retreat. But I left Petra on full alert, in a defensive position, guarding a blind man. If they’d been attacked, there would have been bodies. All we found was a trail. It headed straight for the nearest body of water, because Petra knows how to evade Storm.”

  “No.”

  “No to what? Petra wouldn’t know how to confound a tracking dog?”

  “No to all of this, Casey. Petra wouldn’t do that. I thought you knew her better.”

  My face hardens, and I open my mouth to answer, but Dalton cuts in, his voice calm, breezy even.

  “When Casey came to Rockton, Petra sought her out,” he says. “Made a point of winning her friendship. Casey was flattered, naturally. Petra cultivated the friendship of the new detective, the sheriff’s girlfriend—”

  “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.

  “I … can see you’ve put a lot of work into this,” Émilie says, and something inside me collapses, deflates into this hard nub in my stomach.

  I know what comes next. I’ve heard it before, in that same, careful tone. Every time my music tutor graded a test piece, her gaze would slide to my mother, standing stiff, her expressionless face radiating cold judgment. The tutor never looked at Dad, relaxed and open, smiling as if I hadn’t just massacred Chopin.

  That’s the mistake everyone made. If someone drove me too hard, if someone could crush my self-confidence under their thumb, clearly it was my mother, right? The Chinese tiger mom? Oh, my mother definitely had high standards for me, definitely pushed me to achieve them, but the one who would lambaste me after this musical disaster? That would be the genial Scot lounging on the couch.

  I can see you put a lot of work into this.

  That’s what my music tutor always said, and she’d been right. I’d worked my fingers off practicing, but it never mattered. I suspect she always wanted to award me an A for effort. She couldn’t, though. My parents would see through that and send her packing, like they had her predecessor. Effort is not enough. The world only rewards achievement.

  Now Émilie says those words, and the same pronouncement is coming
. A for effort, Casey. C for achievement.

  I don’t speak. I won’t speak. I sit as still as I had on my piano bench, chin raised, eyes hooded, inwardly raging and shamed, outwardly channeling my mother.

  “You say Petra confirmed this?” Émilie continues.

  “She confirmed the pieces she could. I have no idea how much she knows.”

  “Nothing,” Émilie murmurs. “She knows nothing. But yes, she could confirm the pieces, and that would be enough. She would put them together and know that your theory is fundamentally correct.”

  “Right, which is why she ran—” I stop. “Fundamentally correct?”

  Her eyes are distant, as if she’s only half listening, half lost in another place.

  “You are correct about the Second Settlement,” she says, “and the young man. What was his name?”

  “Hendricks.”

  “Ah, yes. An alias. Henry, I believe it was. Henry Richardson? Henri Richard? I can’t recall, but it hardly matters. He’s dead. Car accident a few years after he left Rockton.” She meets my gaze. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  A sad curve of her lips. “But you were thinking it. Car crash. How convenient. At the time, I thought nothing of it, other than a spot of grief for a man I only vaguely knew. My husband knew him better. Hendricks’s mission in the settlement, though, was my idea. It seemed so terribly clever. Take a group of people already inclined to peace and natural intoxicants, and nudge them a little down that path. A tea to keep them happy and calm and unlikely to attack Rockton.”

  That wistful smile grows rueful, one corner of her mouth twitching. “It seems silly now. A tea? That’s going to fix the inherent problems of dissatisfaction and envy? How naive. But part of me was still the girl who watched Edwin put a gun to my husband’s head. I was obsessed with avoiding that. So I synthesized a brew based on local plants.”

  She glances up at me. “That’s how Robert and I first met—I worked a summer term at his family’s company while studying pharmacy and biomedical science. I devised the brew, and we tested it ourselves, naturally.” Her eyes twinkle. “That was the fun part. Then Robert hired Henry to join the Second Settlement and continue perfecting the tea while convincing them to adopt it as part of their lifestyle.”