There on the tablet screen is a photo of one Jerome—Jerry—MacDonald. A pharmaceutical company chemist. Forty-three. Divorced. No kids. Worked at the same company since he graduated from university. It’s Jerry Hastings. Beyond any doubt.

According to Dalton, Hastings’s entry story was that he’d been selling information on a new drug to a rival company. He’d been on the verge of getting caught when he agreed to pay a half million to hang out in Rockton until he could sneak back down south and enjoy the remainder of his ill-gotten gains. In other words, he’s one of those white-collar guys whose misdeeds keep the town running. And with what I’ve found here, his story is true. He’s a traitorous little weasel. But not a killer.

I spend the next two hours glued to that tablet, going through two cappuccinos, a muffin, and a bowl of homemade granola. At one point, Dalton wanders off. This is too much indoor time for him. When he returns, I’m on the front patio. It’s chilly, but I’ll survive.

I’m researching Irene Prosser now. I’ve compiled a list of clues to her real identity. I’m rather proud of the detective work on this one. After those X-rays suggested that her battered-woman story was bullshit, I started adding questions about her into my interviews. Subtle and casual queries that yielded someone who said Irene had mentioned two stepkids and someone else who commented that Irene’s accent suggested northern Alberta.

With these tidbits, I come up with Irene Peterson. Thirty-six. From Grande Prairie, Alberta. Attended Bow Valley College in Calgary. Formerly married to a man who has two kids. There’s only a stub of a Facebook page, but I dig up a five-year-old photo. Dalton agrees it’s a match.

From what I find, Irene Peterson divorced four years ago and cleared her Facebook page shortly after that. She returned to Grande Prairie, but after a few months she moved to Edmonton. A string of addresses followed. The clues suggest a familiar story. Separate from abusive husband. Try to take refuge back home, and when that fails, flee to the city, hoping for anonymity.

I could be completely wrong. Maybe she committed a crime post-divorce that set her on the run. But I find nothing that refutes her entry story. I must accept the possibility that—like Hastings—she is exactly what she claimed to be.

Dalton says, “Which fucks up the theory that someone is hunting criminals who’ve been smuggled in.”

Yes, that had been the next logical leap. If three murderers smuggled into Rockton wound up dead, there was a strong case for vigilante justice.

“Except Abbygail didn’t fit,” I say. “Which means, while this does throw a wrench in the works, her death already did that.”

At the mention of Abbygail, a shadow passes behind his eyes, but it’s gone in a blink as he refocuses.

“We need to find a new connection,” he says.

“Or accept that there isn’t one. Accept that you’ve got the worst kind of serial killer in Rockton. One who kills for no reason other than that he likes it.”

Eight

Before dinner, I buy gifts. Fancy pencils and a sketch pad for Petra, who’d commented that Dalton’s idea of “art pencils and paper” came from a dollar store. Rose’s Lime Juice for Beth, who shares my love of tequila but prefers hers in a margarita, and the dry mix they serve at the Lion doesn’t cut it. Wool socks for Anders, who comes in from evening patrol and sticks his feet on the wood stove. I get hair colour for Diana. I’m not sure if I’ll give it to her, but I feel as if leaving her out of the gift-buying process would be a statement I’m not ready to make. I also buy two pounds of coffee, which Dalton spots when he picks me up after his own errands.

“For the station,” I say.

It’s the kind he was drinking in the café. He looks from it to the bag of presents. “You pay attention.”

“That’s kinda my job, boss. What’s on the agenda now?”

“Dinner. Then a side trip.”

The side trip takes us up a mountain outside Dawson City. When we reach the top …

“Wow,” I say, my nose practically pressed to the window. Dalton puts the window down, and it seems “practically” might be an understatement. My head falls forward as the glass disappears, and he chuckles under his breath.

The view is unbelievable. The sun has just started to drop, and there’s a sliver of pink to the west, over Dawson City, which sits like a toy town nestled along the winding river. To the east … Well, there’s nothing to the east except forest. Endless forest. Somewhere in the middle of it is Rockton, our invisible town, lost among the trees and the hills and the mountains and the lakes and the rivers.

With wilderness as far as the eye can see, it should be like the view from the plane, but it isn’t. That was a spectacular painting. This is real. I know this forest now. I know what’s out there—the awe-inspiring and the terrifying.

Dalton parks, and I’m out of the car almost before it stops. There are a few lookout spots up here at the top, and I try all of them, even fighting through the bushes and brambles when I see another I want to check out. Dalton walks to the highest point and watches me from a bench there.

When I’m finally done exploring, I hop up and stand on the back of the bench to get an even better look.

“Okay,” I say. “Time to get to work, right?”

“No work.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s no work here. Just this.” He waves at the lookout. “Thought you might like to see it.”