I only have to say nine words when Val cracks open her door: I need to speak to you about Sheriff Dalton. She ushers me in with, “Five minutes, detective. I have things to do.”

Her home … No, again that’s the wrong word. This is not a home. The living room looks exactly like mine did when I moved in. While decor isn’t a priority in Rockton, people still need to feather their nests. Petra’s secondary source of income is sketching and selling wall art. Others knit blankets, quilt pillows, and make crafts from whatever else they find on the forest’s edge.

The only thing Val has added to her room is a shelf of writing journals. One book is open upside down on the end table, with a pen beside it.

She doesn’t offer me a drink. Doesn’t even offer me a seat. I still lower myself to the sofa. She seems inclined to stay standing but then, with obvious reluctance, perches on the armchair.

“You don’t have a high opinion of Sheriff Dalton,” I say.

“I have an adequate opinion of his ability to function in his position.”

“Nothing more.”

A twist of her lips, as if she’s holding back a sneer. “No, nothing more.”

“May I ask why that is?” I say, then quickly add, “I’m not here to challenge your opinion. But as I investigate, I need to consider all possibilities, and you seem to be one of the few people who might balance the prevailing view of Sheriff Dalton.”

“One of the few willing to badmouth him, you mean. If you’re considering him for these crimes, detective, I’m inclined to say don’t bother. Not because he isn’t capable of murder. He is. But he isn’t capable of such careful crimes. Dalton is a blunt instrument. He’s unsophisticated. He’s uneducated. He’s barely literate.”

“Based on his written reports?” I hold back a note of incredulity.

“His reports are verbal. I doubt he’s capable of writing them down.”

“Besides feeling as if Dalton is undereducated—”

“Ignorant, Detective Butler. He is ignorant. A lack of education combined with an innate lack of intelligence. Have you heard his language? I’m sure you know that profanity and ignorance rise in direct proportion, and I’ve rarely heard it rise as high as Sheriff Dalton’s. I don’t think he even knows a word over two syllables.”

I bite my tongue.

“Eric Dalton is a walking stereotype,” she continues, “and he’s too ignorant to even realize it. You’ve seen him sauntering down the street like the tin star in a spaghetti western. He has no desire to change, to better his life. He reminds me of the boys who used to ride past my grandparents’ farm. Hooting and hollering at me from their rusted pickups, throwing beer cans out the window.”

I open my mouth, but she’s on a roll, her face animated.

“I told my grandparents they made me nervous, and do you know what they said? Come down off my high horse and get to know them better. I decided maybe they were right. So the next time those boys catcalled and offered me a ride home, I said yes. They drove me to the woods for a ‘party’ instead. Laughed when I insisted they take me home. Mocked my diction and told me to stop being so stuck-up and have some fun. I calmed down and pretended to go along with it. Then, the first chance I got, I ran. I told my grandparents, and they said I’d misinterpreted. Because, apparently, kidnapping me was just those boys’ way of being neighbourly. That taught me all I need to know about men like Eric Dalton. And about how other people admire them and make allowances for them.”

“Has Er—Dalton ever done anything like that?”

“To me?” She laughs. “I’m not exactly a teenager anymore.”

“So that’s his preference? Young women?”

She stops. “Do you mean Abbygail?”

I nod.

Val goes still. She cups her hands in her lap, and her voice lowers, that strident note vanishing as she says, “God, I hope not. You think he—?”

“No.” I’ll give her nothing she can take back to the council. Dalton must have the full benefit of my doubt until I find irrefutable proof.

I continue. “I’m investigating all possible romantic links with the victims. There aren’t many younger men in town, and Dalton was close to Abbygail, so I can’t ignore that avenue.”

“She was a good girl,” she says, in that same soft voice. “I didn’t think that when she first came. This isn’t a place for girls like that. Runaways. Addicts. Whores.”

I stiffen at the last word. I know she only means prostitutes, but it is a horrible word to use, especially for a teenage girl who turned tricks to survive on the street. What Val means is that Abbygail was not the kind of girl she’d been, and therefore she found her lifestyle distasteful—a sign of ignorance and low intelligence. Which I suspect, to Val, is the worst possible failing.

“Abbygail overcame that, though,” she says. “Elizabeth set her on the right track. She promised me she would, and she delivered, and I give her full credit for that. Abbygail was a true success story, entirely due to the mentorship of strong women like Elizabeth and Isabel.”

“You don’t have a problem with Isabel, then? Her line of work?”

“If women are willing to debase themselves in that way, then it only means other women don’t need to worry about men acting on their urges.”

There are so many things I could say to that. Not about Isabel or her occupation, but about the idea of championing strong women while tearing down those you view as less strong. Less morally upright, too. I suspect that’s a big deal to Valerie. Women are either good girls or bad. Men are animals at the mercy of their “urges.” As for the role Dalton and Mick and other men in Rockton played in Abbygail’s recovery? Irrelevant.