“See what I mean? Maybe she and Nate were in on it together.”

“Nate wasn’t mad about a ceremonial site,” Deputy Bobby said.

“What was he mad about?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet you a box of donuts that it had something to do with money.”

“Like, you buy me a box of donuts if I’m right? And I buy you a box of donuts if you’re right? But either way, we both get donuts because we’re friends and we share?”

“If I win, you don’t get to eat any donuts for a week.”

“Oh God, no, that’s a big pass.”

“For one week, Dash?”

“Are you a monster? They’re donuts!”

Some of the iron in his shoulders relaxed. He leaned against the desk. He wasn’t wearing that awful, cracked-in-half smile; instead, he looked the way he did sometimes, when I said or did something particularly…Dashian. Like he didn’t have any idea what to do, frankly. Like he’d found something new in the world. Like he might smile.

“I want you to leave this alone,” he said in his earnest, Deputy Bobby way. “I understand that you want to see justice done. That’s one of the things I—” He stopped. Swallowed. “That’s admirable. But this is dangerous. I’ll explain what you found to the sheriff.”

“And she’ll weigh it and consider it and decide I’m full of beans.”

“Is that an expression?”

“And the killer will have more time to cover their tracks.”

“Dash, a proper murder investigation takes manpower, resources—we don’t have any of that.”

The we sent a little thrill through me.

In true Deputy Bobby fashion, though, he managed to grind all the fun out of it when he continued, “I promise I’m not going to let this get swept under the rug, but I want you to promise me you’ll leave it alone.”

“No.”

“Dash—”

“You’re not a deputy anymore. Or you’re on leave. Or whatever.”

“I’m telling you that this is too dangerous, and I’m asking you—”

“And you’re moving.”

He sounded like he was struggling to control his voice. “I am asking you,” he said again, “to promise me—”

“In a couple of weeks, you won’t even be thinking about this case anymore. Gerry didn’t mean anything to you, and you’ll be busy with your new home and your new friends and your new life. You’ll forget all about—” Me almost slipped out of my mouth. “—Hastings Rock.”

“If I tell you I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it.” His volume surged. “And it doesn’t matter that I’m not a deputy anymore. And it doesn’t matter that I’m moving, or that I didn’t know Gerry, or that I’m going to be busy with other things. I’m saying this because I care about you! Because I want you to be safe! And for God’s sake, Dash, I’m not going to forget you!”

The light dimmed inside the shelter like an eclipse. The wind rattled the shutters. Deputy Bobby stared at me, breathing hard.

I stared back. A prickle started in my eyes, but I refused to look away.

For another moment, we both stayed like that. Then Deputy Bobby sagged back. He slapped the side of the desk, and the clap filled the shelter’s cramped space. I flinched and looked away.

The break of the waves filled the silence.

“I’m going to go,” I said.

Deputy Bobby clasped his hands and rested his head on them. When I started to move, he didn’t look up, but he did say, “Don’t.” It wasn’t an order, not really. It was low. And it sounded like begging.

So, I didn’t.

After several long heartbeats, Deputy Bobby took a ragged breath. “Can we talk about something?” He seemed to struggle, and then he added, “I just need a few minutes.” The sound he made was a try at a laugh, but a bad one. “Anything, Dash. Please.”

I didn’t mean anything by it; it had been on my mind, that’s all, and it was the first thing that popped out of my mouth. “Are you all packed?”

“God, please. Anything but that.” He shifted slightly, as though trying to get more comfortable, but his head still didn’t come up. “What about your story? The anthology. Tell me about that.”

“How do you know about that?”

“West.”

“Uh, it’s going great.”

Deputy Bobby laughed—croaked, really—but his head came up. His eyes were red, but dry. His knuckles had left livid spots where they’d pressed into his forehead.

“It’s a disaster,” I said. “I mean, my parents assume I can just polish up something I’ve been working on and send it over. I honestly think they believe that I—I don’t know. That I write all the time, but I choose not to send it out, or I’m lazy, or something.”

“You do write all the time.”

“I sit at my computer. I type a few words. A lot more disappear. I call it the Case of the Vanishing Manuscript.”

“Why don’t you just type more words and not delete any?”

“God, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I’m serious: why don’t you? It’s just a story, Dash. You type one word. Then the next one.” Something changed in his face. What I might, if Will Gower had seen it, have described as a hint of good-natured devilry. “‘Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’”

I wondered if my eyebrows could fly off my face. “Sherlock Holmes and Lewis Carroll in one conversation?”

He gave me that embarrassed half-smile and a one-shouldered shrug, but the question did seem sincere. From anybody else, I probably would have taken offense at the question. Scratch that: I would have gone into an icy rage, completely shut down, and retreated to Hemlock House to soothe myself with an abundance of snickerdoodles. But since it was Deputy Bobby, the question wasn’t just sincere. It was earnest. And, unexpectedly, I found myself wanting to answer it.

“It’s hard to put into words.” A grin slanted across my mouth. “I guess that’s my whole problem; everything is hard to put into words, which isn’t ideal for a writer. I guess—it’s like, I have this story in my head, and it’s so good. I know it’s good. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve read a lot. And what I’ve sent out, I’ve gotten good feedback on. I’m not going to be the next Bill Shakespeare, but I know I’ve got good stories to tell. And then I sit down to write, and it’s like—it’s like there’s this blender in my gut, all these bright, shiny blades, and they start spinning as fast as they can. Everything I do seems wrong. And every time I do something wrong, I realize everything else is wrong too. And there’s this part of me that thinks if I can fix just this one word and get it perfect, then I’ll be able to get the next one. But instead, I putz around and make it worse, and then everything else is worse, and there’s all that sharp metal whirling around inside me, all this light and glitter like teeth trying to eat me up, and—” I made a gesture with one hand. “Poof. The Case of the Vanishing Manuscript.”

Deputy Bobby stared at me. He had eyes the color of burnished bronze, and his pupils were huge in the low light. He’d clasped his hands again, and his knuckles blanched under the pressure.

“It’s hard to describe,” I said. “My therapists—notice the plural—have suggested a lot of reasons. I mean, I’m a perfectionist, obviously. And there’s a lot of pressure to perform because my parents are who they are. And I can’t remember the term from the DSM, but I’m a diagnosable whack-a-doodle.”