“With them. I guess not. They’d be quite the opposite in fact. You could almost say they’d be under their spell.”

Peter shook his head. “Spell?”

“Control, then.”

“I guess. But they weren’t making them do anything bad when I was up there.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you’re here, Peter.”

“Yes. Yes, I know that.”

“And it’ll hurt as all hell because you love him but—”

“But what?”

The sheriff eased back into his seat and maintained eye contact with Peter, as if he was waiting for him to make another connection.

“But I know that something’s wrong.”

“Yes,” said the sheriff. “And that?”

“And that something’s wrong with him.”

Peter clutched at his stomach and the sheriff leaned forward. “There. Feel that sting now? Right there in the pit of your guts?”

Peter nodded.

“Yeah. Well, I reckon that sting’s the worst. Hurts like all hell, don’t it?”

“Yes. But why? What is it?”

“While a weaker part of you is busy keeping you in the dark, trying to convince you that your doubts are all wrong because he’s your Cooper so it can’t be true, that’s the sting that tells you your instincts are right.”

The candle’s flame curled over and snow started to pummel the windows, making the billboards outside groan like they’d give up the fight any moment now.

“Teddy,” said the sheriff. “Go fetch the whisky from the stoop, there’s a good boy. I reckon we could all do with one now.”

Teddy did as he was told. He quietly got up from the table, stacking the dinner plates, and dumped them in the sink. He left them alone and the sheriff sat there, fingers toying with the rim of his whisky glass, looking across the way at Peter. But he didn’t speak. He gave him time to be alone with his thoughts and soon Teddy stepped back inside, dusting snow from the base of an old whisky bottle. He cracked a tray of ice cubes across three tumblers, dousing each glass with a neat shot and passed them round.

“Here,” said Teddy, “take this.”

“No, thank you,” said Peter. “I’m fine.”

“Go on. It’ll help.”