"True." He picks up another knife and begins sharpening it. "People take offense when I do this. You do not. Eric does not. Isabel just tells me to put the damned knife away. Do you know why it does not bother you three?"
"Because we don't think you're going to carve us up for tomorrow's tourtiere?"
He chuckles. "Probably not. As I said, I like you. Also? You do not have enough fat. I am certain some do worry when I sharpen my knife, but for most, they simply do not like me seeming distracted. It is a case of--" He waves his hands. "Look at me! I am important! You do not need that. Eric does not need that. Isabel does not need that."
"Okay...."
"I sharpen my blades while I chat, because it is an efficient use of time. Yet I realize how it can be misconstrued. It is the equivalent of checking one's cell phone. It can be read as This conversation bores me. When I studied patients, I had to be very careful not to multitask in their presence. Well, not unless it was useful--take out my phone to check messages while a narcissist is speaking, and he will need to regain my attention, which may mean telling me things he had meant to keep secret."
"Uh-huh. This is leading somewhere, right?"
Another waggle of the knife. "Patience. I enjoy our conversations. Do not rush them. So now, imagine I am speaking to this poor captive girl, and I do this."
"Sharpen knives? Yeah, no. But I think you can give her thirty minutes without getting distracted."
"It is not 'getting distracted.' It is..." He puts the knife down and leans on the counter. "How long was she in that hole?"
"Fifteen months."
"How big was it?"
"About five feet across."
"She was down there fifteen months. In the dark. In the cold. Alone except for when a man came and made her wish she was alone. Or perhaps she was grateful to have contact with another person. How would that make her feel, if she found herself looking forward to those footsteps? You have thought of what that would be like, yes?"
I don't answer.
"You have. I see it in your face. You think of it, and you feel for her. You empathize. You cannot imagine what it would be like, but you still try."
"It isn't empathy if it's about me."
"That is the definition of empathy, Casey. You feel what she must have. And do you know what I would think, sitting there and hearing her story? How fascinating it is. What an incredible case study in human resilience and the psychology of captivity. That is all I would think, and she would see it, and she does not deserve that. Which is as close to empathy as I come--that I recognize my reaction would harm her and I do not wish to do that."
"But--"
"My offer then is to briefly examine her medically and then consult psychologically. For the latter, you will speak to her--you and Isabel. I will give you questions. You will ask them, and you will respond to her answers with all due empathy."
"I'm not sure I--"
"You will. Neither you nor Isabel is the warm, come-cry-on-my-shoulder type. Your empathy is that you are outraged by her situation, and you will do whatever you can to help her. She needs that more. A Valkyrie to avenge her pain, not tissues to soak up her tears. She also does not need a vulture of a scientist preying on her responses because he finds her an intellectual diversion. If you find the man who did this to her? I will speak to him."
SIXTEEN
It's night, well past quitting time. Dalton and I spend dinner and most of the evening hashing through suspects and coming up with a plan of action. Then he's called off to deal with yet another unrelated issue. That's law enforcement here.
I work alone at the station, while Anders is out with the militia. Later I fetch the puppy and stay for tea with Petra.
I don't know Petra's reason for being in Rockton. We are friends. Good ones. Yet I do not ask. I've had enough hints to know there's serious trauma in her past. When she's willing to share, she will. I don't ask Dalton for her story either. If I ever need it for work, I'll ask her first. All relationships are extra complicated in a town like this.
I leave Petra's with the puppy on a leash, which feels silly. She's eight weeks old, barely past infancy. I pick her up, but she whines and wriggles, and it's clear she's happy with tumbling and stumbling if it means new territory to explore.
I still feel bad having her on a lead rather than letting her toddle free. It's not as if I couldn't grab her if she bolted. But when Petra handed me the leash, she said, "Eric insists. I wasn't allowed to even open my door without having her locked in a room, or apparently she'd head for the hills and never be seen again."
Which I understand. If Dalton had his way, we'd all be on leashes. That impulse thwarted, he'll exercise it on the one creature he can reasonably expect to wear one.
Walking the puppy means it takes a good hour to cross the few hundred feet to Dalton's place. That's not just because she wanders. Most people here haven't seen a pet in years, and this isn't just a dog, but a squirming, shaggy black puppy who instantly adores every last person she meets.
By the time we make it to Dalton's place, I can't feel my face anymore, but she's in no rush to go inside, so I wander to the edge of town. I'm standing near the path, rolling snowballs for the puppy to chase, when I hear, "Casey!" and turn to see Dalton running, hatless, toward me, his jacket undone.