Damn it, Eric, don’t do this.

“I’m not angry,” I say.

His voice firms. “Don’t pull that shit with me, Casey. You’ve been distant since yesterday, and by this afternoon you could barely stand the sight of me. I need to know what I’ve done wrong.”

I hesitate and then say, “Hold on. I’m coming down.”

He’s still on my back porch. The cross fox is out, prowling, and Dalton’s gaze flicks to it and then back at me, like a schoolboy trying hard not to be distracted when he knows he’s in trouble.

“It’s about the case,” I say.

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“About Abbygail.”

He nods, his expression neutral but his shoulders tightening as if he’s bracing himself.

“The night of her birthday party, you were seen behind the community hall with her.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck,” and he closes his eyes, swaying slightly, and I want to grab him and shake him and say, No.

Do not do this, Eric. Do not tell me it’s true. Or if it is true, give me an excuse. Don’t stand there with your eyes closed looking like you’re about to throw up, because that tells a very different story. One I do not want to hear.

“Eric?” I say.

“I—” His eyes open, and in them I see panic. Panic and guilt. Such incredible guilt. “We—It—”

He looks off to the side. At the fox and then away again.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” I say.

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I will. I just … It’s …”

He swallows and looks around for an escape hatch. He spots the back door and heads for it, throwing it open and walking inside, and I want to yell, Hey! That’s my house! but I know there’s no subtext in the intrusion. He wants to take this conversation inside, and so he does.

When I walk in, though, I see he wants something very different. He has my tequila bottle in hand, and he’s pulling a mug off the shelf.

“I don’t think you need that,” I say.

“Yeah, I do. I really do.”

He pours the shot and downs it so fast he gasps, grabbing the back of a chair as he doubles over, coughing. When he straightens, his eyes are watering. He closes them for a second and then looks at me and says, “I fucked up, Casey. I fucked up so bad.”

I wave to a seat, but he shakes his head and stays standing, still gripping that chair.

“I was blind and I was stupid and I hurt her,” he says. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

I struggle to stay calm. To look calm. “Tell me what happened.”

“We left the party together. She’d had too much to drink, and someone had to walk her home. We were passing behind the hall, and she said she saw an animal dart under it. I followed and … and she kissed me. I didn’t see it coming. Absolutely did not see it coming. She’d pecked my cheek a couple of times, when I did something for her, and maybe that was a sign, but I thought it was just a friendly kiss. This wasn’t. I couldn’t even process what was happening. When I did, I backed away. Fast. I told her she’d had too much to drink. She said she’d had just enough to do what she didn’t dare when she was sober. She said … things. About me. How she felt. I panicked. I just panicked. I said hell no. That wasn’t happening. Ever.”

He swallows and white-knuckles the chair. “I rejected her. Rejected her hard. I didn’t mean to, but like I said, I panicked. She got mad. Said I treated her like a child. Said she felt like the only way she’d get my attention is if she walked into the forest and made me come after her. But she was drunk. Drunk and talking nonsense, and that’s what I thought until …” The chair chatters against the wood floor, and I see his hands are shaking.

“Until she disappeared,” I say. “By walking into the forest.”

An abrupt nod. “That night, I stayed out until dawn patrolling, and then I put extra militia on during the day. But she came by the station and apologized. She said she’d been drunk and made a stupid mistake with the kiss, and she didn’t really mean all those things she said. She apologized for threatening to go into the forest. She was angry with herself for saying I treat her like a child and then acting like one. Two nights later, she walked into the forest, and I wasn’t paying attention anymore, and someone else must have been. Someone followed her and …” His voice breaks. “I fucked up.”

This is the Eric Dalton I know. This is the story that makes sense, and the anguish in his face tells me it’s true. All except one part. That Abbygail went into the forest to spite him. There is nothing in the girl I’ve come to know that suggests she’d do that. Lash out and threaten to in drunken anger and humiliation? Yes. But she was mature enough to regret that the next day and apologize. She wouldn’t do that and then take off.

Why did Abbygail go into the forest the night she disappeared? Only now do I realize that my sleeping brain really did figure it out, in a way. I dreamed that Dalton lured her in. What if someone else did, in his name? A note perhaps. And Abbygail, still smarting from his rejection, couldn’t help but hope he’d reconsidered. That he’d taken time and realized he did have deeper feelings for her.

Come to the forest at midnight, Abby. Meet me by the big birch tree. I need to talk to you.

Streetwise Abbygail would only walk into those woods for one person. The guy she hoped would, one day, invite her there.