“No, it’s a sign you want to find out who killed your lover.”

“True, but this is …” She sets the folder on my lap. “Mick was hiding that. Which might suggest he was hiding other things, including an affair, and it’s difficult for me to admit that. But if I thought there was a remote chance he was, I would admit it. As humiliating as it might be to have my young lover cheating on me, it’d be worse to be proven wrong. Mick had faults. He had secrets. Screwing around wasn’t one of them. But this was.”

I open the folder. It’s a sheaf of papers. On the top one is a list of names. I’ve seen them before. In Dalton’s journal. They’re the real names of those he suspects are in Rockton under false pretences.

I flip through the file to find notes on each name. It seems like exactly what I saw in Dalton’s journal. Notes on the suspects and their crimes.

“You aren’t asking me what those names are,” she says.

I look up at her. “Do you know?”

“I’ve heard rumours that there are people here who shouldn’t be. Secrets are profitable, and I may have been known to pay for them.”

“Is that where Mick got these?” I ask.

“No. I’ve heard perhaps three stories. Not nearly in the detail of that file, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want those secrets, Casey. The only reason I’d care to know who those people are is so I can stay as far away from them as possible. When I want secrets, I want things like your friend getting here by lying about her ex. That’s useful. What’s in there isn’t useful—it’s dangerous.”

“So where did Mick get it?”

“All I can think is that maybe he was keeping notes for Eric. That Eric was digging into people, and he didn’t dare keep a record in his handwriting, let alone in his house. So he asked Mick to help. Which Mick would have. Given his own past.”

“Which is?”

She taps the folder. “I added a page for him. If you have questions, you know where to find me.”

Before Isabel leaves, I ask her about schizophrenia. We talk for a bit, but she doesn’t add much to what I know. Some of it fits Jacob and some of it clearly does not.

Afterward, I can’t get to Mick’s notes as quickly as I’d like. My next interview arrives early, and that’s supposed to be my only interview for the afternoon, except two more people show up, bearing information that is less than useful. However, they also both come bearing gifts. Brian brings another apple pie. Petra brings a sketch she did, of me on Cricket, racing Anders back into town.

I get the feeling those gifts were the point of their visits, rather than the uninformative information. Petra admits there’s a good reason I haven’t had any actual visitors. Dalton has apparently been telling everyone to leave me alone. Or, more accurately, leave me the fuck alone.

There’s a moratorium on all social visits until tomorrow, by which time he’s decided I’ll be well enough to take them. I could argue with that, but he has a point. The interviews are taxing enough. It just would have been nice to be told why no one was coming to visit me.

I conduct the afternoon’s meetings in my living room, getting myself prepared for the trip to Dawson City.

I’m packing when Anders comes by.

“Boss is tied up with council shit,” he says. “They’re going over plans for rebuilding the woodshed. To leave on schedule, he’ll need to meet you at the hangar. I said I’d walk you over.”

“Thanks.”

He holds my duffle bag as I put in a change of clothing. “So, you and Eric, huh?”

I glance over.

“He told me. I think he figured he should be the one to do it, which I appreciate. We had a nice talk.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. Let’s see, how’d it go.” He lowers his voice to Dalton’s pitch. “You hear about me and Casey? No. So you and Casey …? Yeah. Ah. You and Casey. That okay? Sure. I’m happy for you. Yeah? Yeah. Okay. Good.” Anders looks at me. “It was a guy conversation.”

I laugh. “I see.”

“If it was anyone else, I’d be less okay with it, but Eric? He deserves you. You deserve him. I am happy for you both.”

He gives me a one-armed hug, and I say thanks. Then I toss my toiletries in the bag and he carries it downstairs. I need to grab my jacket from the back room, and when I come back, he’s got Mick’s folder. I’d left it on the front table when I went to pack, planning to take it for some in-flight reading. He’s staring at the first page—the list of names. When I walk in, he slaps it shut.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m snooping.”

“You’re a cop. You’re supposed to snoop.”

He smiles, but it looks strained. He’s had to pick up the slack while I recuperate and Dalton plays nurse. I catch a glimpse of the toll it’s taking as he hands me the folder.

“You okay?” I ask.

He jumps, as if startled by the question. “Sure. Why?”

“You look seriously overworked.”

“Always.” He points at the folder. “Since I’m professionally allowed to be nosy, I’m guessing that’s a list of real names?”

“Hmm?”

“Real names of locals.”

“Something like that. Just a lead I’m chasing.” I stuff the folder into my duffle, which he takes and waves me to the door without another word.