He says nothing for about five seconds. Then he shifts his weight, backing out of looming mode. “No, I did not understand that, detective. I do now. No one’s ever complained about being propositioned before.”

“Well, you can sure as hell bet I’m not the first. They’re being asked, and they’re dealing with it on their own. It’s embarrassing and humiliating to have a guy presume he can buy sex from you.”

The kettle sings. He goes to make the coffee, and I think the conversation’s at an end, so I pull out another file. A few minutes later, he’s looming again.

“I want to know who offered you money,” he says. “If you don’t have a name, a description will do. I’ll make an example of him and—”

“And he’ll tell everyone I overreacted. That the new girl is a stuck-up prude who can’t take a joke. Or that he was drunk and made a silly mistake. No matter how it’s handled, I’ll be a bitch and he’ll be the misunderstood guy who was just trying to tell me he thinks I’m cute.”

“I would like the chance to handle this, detective.”

“If it happens again—or if I hear about other women being hassled—I’ll take my lumps and be the bitch. But having you fix it for me only says I can’t.”

He stands there. Then he sets his journal on the desk. I look up to see he’s left a mug of coffee there, fixed with creamer, exactly as I take it.

I watch him head out onto the back deck.

I don’t understand you, sheriff. Not one bit.

Anders checks in at eleven. The last few days have been “all hands on deck” because of Hastings’s disappearance, but we’re back to regular shifts, which still aren’t all that regular—we come in when Dalton tells us to and work ten hours, give or take.

When Anders arrives, he makes a beeline for my desk. Well, the desk. Dalton is out back. He’s come and gone a few times in the last few hours, but he always ends up out there, not a word to me on the way.

“Hey,” Anders says. “About last night—”

“Good, you’re here.” Dalton appears from nowhere to intercept Anders. “I need you out at the airstrip. Got a delivery coming in.”

“Sure, but there’s no sign of the plane yet, and I wanted to talk to—”

Dalton backs him up clear out the door and closes it behind them. I can’t hear their conversation, but I can pick up enough to know it’s about the Roc. Anders wants to talk to me about it, and Dalton is telling him to drop it.

Anders leaves. Dalton comes in. When I look up, he’s standing there. He gestures at the journal.

“Better now?” he says. “Or worse?”

“I understand your point,” I say carefully.

“So I wasn’t just being an asshole?” He snorts and shakes his head. Then he heads for the back door. I’m figuring that’s the end of the conversation, but he gestures, as if to say, Well, come on. I scrape back my chair and follow him out.

We settle in on the deck. The temperature is dropping, and I zip my hoodie. There’s no official uniform, because it’s not as if anyone here doesn’t know we’re the local PD. Dalton wears a T-shirt and doesn’t seem to notice the chill. I’ve noticed that’s common here, as people adapt to the climate.

I take my place on the railing, and he says, “So do you think I’m a paranoid son of a bitch?”

“I think you have a reason to be. It’s like …” I rub the back of my neck. “As a city cop, you don’t kid yourself about people. You walk into the suburbs, look at those nice houses, and wonder who really lives there. Addicts, abusers, pedophiles, rapists, even murderers. So when you told me criminals get smuggled in, as disconcerting as that was, I told myself it was the same thing.”

“And it’s not?”

I shake my head. “In my old job, it was a hypothetical. You see fifty houses and know a killer could lurk within one. But you realize part of that is a cop’s misanthropy, and there’s a good chance there isn’t an actual killer. But here? It’s a guarantee. And not just one, either.”

I take the journal from my pocket and finger it. Powys is in there. So is Hastings, though only as speculation—Dalton thinks Hastings may be a man accused of murdering his mother for his inheritance. He has positively identified ten people who are here under false pretences. There are twenty more he is actively researching. That’s 15 percent of the population. I’m struggling with that. I really am.

“Thank you for letting me read it,” I say finally. “I’m not sorry I did. I just …”

I trail off, and he says, “Yep,” and we fade to silence.

We don’t stay quiet for long. Dalton asks if I have any questions. It’s an honest offer, and we discuss his methods of research. He keeps a list of things he wants to look up when he flies out, but it’s not exactly a weekly trip. Dawson City does have places where he can access the Internet—the tourism office and two cafés. The problem is that he sure as hell doesn’t dare snoop using the laptop the council has given him.

“You could buy a tablet,” I say.

“Tablet?”

“You know, like an iPad, except I’d suggest generic to save money, since all you want is the browser, not Angry Birds and Netflix.”

His look isn’t confusion. It’s caution, that tightening of his face that says he realizes he should know what I’m talking about. Like being asked to run when you’re trying to hide a limp.