I take the file. Before I go in, I murmur, “Thank you. For explaining.” If he hears, he gives no sign of it. He’s already staring into the forest again.

Night falls. I’m packing up to leave, and Anders comes in.

“Want to grab a drink?” he asks.

I don’t. I’m in a funk, thinking about Irene and Abbygail, and all I want to do is go home and curl up and maybe have a shot of tequila on my own. But I get the feeling that drinking alone out here is the first step toward darkness. What I really want to do is see Diana. But she’s avoiding me.

I tell myself it’s temporary. Low self-confidence causes her to stay with guys like Graham, and it also means sometimes she decides she’s stuck in my shadow and needs to escape for a while. She’ll back off until her confidence returns.

Tonight, though, the loss of Diana just seems one more weight on the load already dragging me down. I’m in this godforsaken town with cannibals outside and a killer inside, and now the friend I’ve come here to help has abandoned me.

So no, I don’t want to go for a drink. But there isn’t any reason to take out my mood on Anders, so I say, “Okay,” then, “I need to drop a few of these files at my place. I’ll meet you—”

“Those files stay in that cabinet,” Dalton cuts in from across the room.

“All right,” I say, as evenly as I can. “I’ll drop off my notes—”

“Your notes stay here, too.”

I turn on him. “Excuse me?”

He’s sitting at the desk, doing paperwork. He doesn’t even lift his head. “It’s nine o’clock at night. You’re going for a drink. Work will wait.”

“All right. I’ll finish a couple of things and lock them in the file cabinet. Are we going to the Roc or the Red Lion?”

Silence. I look over at Anders.

“The, uh, Roc …?” He turns to Dalton. “You explained, right? About the Roc?” When Dalton keeps working, Anders curses under his breath. “Of course not. Stupid question.” He looks at me. “The, uh, Roc is for … Well, the women there … It’s not really a bar as much as …”

“It’s a brothel,” Dalton says.

I turn to him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t, because there’s no way in hell you’d allow a house of prostitution—”

“Not my call.”

“It sure as hell is your call, sheriff. You’ve told me this town has a problem with the lack of women. I went to see Diana last night and got hassled by three men on the way there. Then I’m knocking on her door and the next thing you know, a guy is offering me a hundred credits for sex.”

“What?” Anders says.

I look at him. “You’re shocked? Really?”

“Hell, yes. No one should—”

“You live in a town where women do, apparently, sell sex, and you’re honestly shocked that a woman would need to deal with being offered money for sex? It’s called the setting of expectation and precedent. Sure, I’m not a whore, but no harm in asking, right? You just gotta find the right price. And if you can’t? Well, from the looks of your sexual assault file, I think we know what they do when they can’t find the right price.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I scoop up my notes and the case files, and I walk out.

Five

I’m in the office at ten to eight the next morning. I don’t put on the kettle for coffee, and not because I’m being pissy, but simply because I don’t think to do it. With everything that’s going on, I didn’t exactly get a good night’s sleep, and I’m distracted. I walk in, start the fire in the wood stove, and sit at the desk to work on my notes.

Dalton shows up at the stroke of eight. He takes a bound journal from his coat pocket.

“My notes,” he says. “On residents.”

When I look up, he shoves it back into his pocket. I struggle to keep my expression neutral. I rise and walk to the water dispenser to fill the kettle.

“I don’t allow a brothel in my town,” he says. “That should have been clear when you heard me arguing with Isabel. If I had a choice in the matter, I’d shut her down.”

“Okay.” I put the kettle on the stove.

“You think I’m full of shit,” he says.

“I think if you wanted it shut down, it’d be shut down.”

“Then you overestimate my influence here, detective.”

I return to my seat. He’s standing there, looming over me, waiting for some accusation he can deny. I resume my note taking.

“The council argues that the brothel reduces the problems we have,” he says. “Before it opened, women were already selling sex. It’s a market economy. The problem was that if they sold it once, men kept expecting it, and when they said no, things got ugly. Isabel’s argument is that by having the brothel, she can keep the women safe and be sure it’s what they really want to do.”

“Okay.”

Silence. He shifts his weight, making a noise not unlike a growl. He wants to debate this, to defend it or deny his culpability in it, and I’m not letting him do that.

Finally, I lift my gaze to his. “The problem is the environment it creates for other women. I spent a year in vice, working with hookers, and I’d be the first person to argue for legalizing prostitution. The sex trade isn’t going away. It’s better to regulate it and keep the workers safe. But that’s in a large city, where the overall effect is minimal. Having a brothel in a town with such a small female population creates the kind of environment where women are going to have to deal with an expectation they should never have to deal with. Do you even understand that?”