"I want to be that for you, too."
"You are."
"Am I? Or am I the junior partner here?"
I look over sharply. "What?"
"The trainee. A promising one, but still new at this detective shit, and not ready to work at your level."
"What--?"
"I don't think that's it. But I like the alternative even less--the feeling that if you're holding back, it's not because I haven't proved myself, but because you want to protect me. I'm a little bit naive. A little bit idealistic. You like that. You want to preserve that. Which might seem fine to you, but I feel patronized. Like I'm years younger than you, not just a couple of months."
"I--"
"When we got Nicole back, I know Mathias left that asshole in a hole somewhere. Poetic execution. You know it, too, and I'm sure you confronted him. But you kept that from me."
"No, I did not, Eric. Yes, I confronted Mathias and didn't tell you--because he wouldn't admit to anything. If he did, I would tell you. I have to. Not just because you're my boss, but because keeping it from you would be treating you like a child."
He relaxes at that. But he has a point, one I'm not going to admit right now. I would have told him if Mathias confessed, and I'm glad he didn't, because that would have meant Dalton needed to launch a hunt for a man who deserved his horrible fate.
I didn't push Mathias because I wanted to protect Dalton. And that is wrong. Not wrong to protect him, but wrong if, in protecting him, I'm trying to preserve his innocence, to shield him.
It is patronizing. It's what you do to your children and, at one time, it was how you treated your wife, presuming she didn't have the fortitude to face life's ugly truths. It is not what you do to someone you consider an equal, however good your intentions.
"I'm sorry," I say. "If I've done that, I apologize."
"So we can stop protecting Eric's delicate sensibilities?" he says.
I manage a smile. "We can."
"Good. Then tell me what you were thinking."
"Thinking . . . ?"
"Right before I came back here and gave you a hard time. What you've been thinking all day . . . whenever we haven't been trying to stay alive, which has been, admittedly, the bulk of our morning and afternoon."
"It's only afternoon?"
He shows me his watch. It isn't even 3 P.M. I curse, and he chuckles.
"I'm working on a theory," I say.
"Kinda guessed that."
"It's not one I like."
"Yep."
"If I've been keeping it from you, it isn't to protect your sensibilities. It's to protect your opinion of my mental health. And maybe your opinion of me."
"Because if you tell me what you're thinking, I'll wonder what kind of fucked-up person even imagines something like that."
"Yes."
"Then let me help. Are you wondering whether Harper killed the settlers?"
I blink over at him.