I say none of that, just nod and plaster on a thoughtful look.

“Abbygail had a bright future ahead of her,” Val says. “To take that away …” She sucks in a breath and leans back, and I might not like this woman, but there is genuine grief in her face.

She continues. “If Sheriff Dalton was taking advantage of that poor girl, I certainly hope someone would have told me. But even Elizabeth is charmed by his swagger. She wants him to be a good person, and so she sees a good person. But he’s not good, Detective Butler. There’s something savage in him. He hides it, but …” She leans forward. “You know about his fascination with the forest, I presume.”

I nod.

“Do you know what’s in that forest, Casey?” She’s switched to my given name, relaxing with a sympathetic audience.

“Settlers,” I say. “People who left Rockton to live on their own. And what the locals call hostiles. The dangerous ones.”

“Dangerous ones? They’re all dangerous. They live in the forest with the animals because they are animals. The first month I was here, I went on a group outing. I wanted to experience this life fully. I got separated from the others and ran into two men deep in the forest. They made those redneck boys back home look like civilized gentlemen. What little language these two knew, they used to tell me they were going to teach me a lesson about trespassing on their land. They took me to their camp and …” She straightens. “Like those boys, they were of such low intelligence that I was able to escape the next morning.”

“But you spent the night in their camp.”

“Yes, I could not effect my escape sooner. However, the point—”

“Were you … assaulted?”

Her face goes hard. “Of course not. I’d die fighting if they tried. That was certainly their eventual goal, but they did not touch me that night.”

“All right. So—”

“They did not touch me,” she repeats, growing agitated. “I wouldn’t have allowed that.”

Which is a lie. The hostiles did rape her, their way of teaching a woman a lesson, and then either they dumped her or she escaped. She’d told no one about the assault. Perhaps she even convinced herself it had never happened. But as she sits there desperate for me to believe her, I finally begin to understand Valerie Zapata. What happened to me in that alley twelve years ago is not something that ever goes away. The shame of the beating, of feeling like I should have been able to avoid it, been stronger, been smarter. That is what Val feels.

“I called Rockton a hellhole,” she continues. “That’s not exactly true. Hell is out there, all around us. Hell and unspeakable savagery, and Sheriff Dalton embraces it. He lets people go on excursions. He refuses to hunt down and exterminate those savages. The council listens to him. We could have a paradise here, Casey. An unspoiled Eden. But he will not allow it.”

She leans forward. “He embraces that forest because it is a reflection of his own soul. Dark and twisted and savage. If you want to know who murdered Abbygail and the others, I say look to that forest, to the monsters out there. If you honestly believe it was someone inside this town, then yes, perhaps you should look at the savage in our own midst: Eric Dalton.”

As I leave Val’s, I try to weigh the information she gave me against her own experiences and prejudices. I know she’s wrong about Dalton. Wrong in many ways. But there are kernels of truth in what she says, and I need to pick them from the raw and ugly mass of her own hate and fear.

“Casey?”

Mick is jogging toward me. It’s the first time I’ve seen him more than in passing since I found Abbygail’s remains. When I ask how he’s doing, he shrugs and says, “Managing. Like I said, I was certain Abby was dead. I guess there was still hope, though …” He shifts his weight and then straightens. “Isabel insists on going rock climbing with me this afternoon. She absolutely hates it, and I’m trying to talk her out of it, but she’s determined to cheer me up.” He manages a wry smile. “At the very least, I’ll admit it’s amusing seeing her try to scale a rock face.”

“I’d ask for photos if we had cameras.”

His smile grows more genuine. “There is a Polaroid for special occasions. Maybe I’ll take it along. Anyway, I came to find you because I have something. Remember how I said someone left raspberries for Abby? Someone I suspected had also followed her?”

“Pierre Lang.”

He shakes his head. “Not Lang. I liked him for it, because the way he looked at Abby made my gut burn. As if he was attracted to her but didn’t want to be. You know what I mean?”

Given Lang’s history, I know exactly what he means.

He continues. “But I could never connect him to the damned berries. Now I have a better suspect. Someone who should have gone on that list but, well, he was gone by the time I gave it to you, so I didn’t see the point. Which probably explains why, on the job, I was never going to make detective. My brain doesn’t work that way.”

“Is it Powys?”

“Hastings. He made a few moves in Abby’s direction. Sleazy-uncle stuff. You know: Here, little girl, let me help you with that, huh-huh. Abby just thought he was a creep. She said she could handle it, and he never made an actual pass at her, so I let it slide. But after we found her … Well, I started thinking I should have given you Hastings’s name. He was alive when she disappeared. So I did a little detective work of my own. He went on a raspberry-picking excursion and bribed Rodrigues—the guy in charge—to let him keep a pint. You can ask Rodrigues.”