Page 121 of Jack

Then he lifted his head and kissed her on the lips. Something short, as if almost reassuring himself that she was okay.

Huh.

He leaned away. “The boat float is in the shape of a Loon. And it has a number on the back. In this case . . .” He pointed to a number painted on the front of a yellow storage unit.

Except, no lock hung on the door.

“Are you allowed to open that?”

“I’m not a cop. If I find Penelope, I’m just a guy getting into my storage unit.”

“No wonder you get sued.”

He stepped up to the door, lifted the handle, and swung it open.

She held her breath.

“Empty.” He flashed his light inside, just to be sure. The light skimmed across a couple cans, a shovel.

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “There is a master push code for the sliding gate, so the key can’t be for that. My guess is that the key is for the lock on the door. But this one is open, which means someone left it open and took whatever had been in here.”

He nodded. “An ATV.”

“Yeah? I was thinking snowmobile.”

He glanced at her. “Not bad, but this”—he walked into the unit and picked up a can—“is a corrosion inhibitor. It’s added to gas to prevent corrosion of a metal surface. Used in high-humidity places for vehicles that are not meant to hang out in the snow.”

“Like an ATV.”

He pointed at her.

“So why would he steal an ATV . . .” Even as she said it, her heart fell. “To hide the body.”

He walked out, shut the door.

She had turned, looking at the space across from the storage unit, and her eye caught on something shiny and yellow on the ground. “What if the key isn’t just for the storage unit?” She pointed to the spot, and he shone his light on it.

A number, painted yellow on the ground, broken by snow and ice that partially concealed it.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“A parking space for icehouses.”

He took her hand, and they walked down the row, out to the lake. The moonlight shone on a village of houses, maybe two hundred yards out.

“We need the sheriff,” he said. “And you need a better coat.”

Thirty minutes later, she sat in the Geo, the heat blasting as Jack drove them through the darkness, behind Sheriff Davidson’s car, searching for house number 132.

It felt like searching through a pile of laundry for a lone sock.

No, she was simply cold.

Worse, Boo refused to go to the church, joining with Oaken and the others on her team, searching the boatyard.

The sheriff stopped in front of a large orange icehouse that reminded her of a tow-behind camper trailer, parked in a neat row of other icehouses.

“Stay—” Jack turned to her. “Forget it.”

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