Page 134 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

A hand gripped Garrett and pulled him out of the way.

“It’s okay.” The voice was familiar. Garrett focused on the man’s face. Thomas. His friend. A volunteer fireman. And paramedic. “We got this.”

Thomas all but pushed Garrett to the other side of the room, then hurried back to Dean’s side.

Garrett couldn’t move, just stared as people surrounded his uncle. Furniture was moved. A gurney brought in. Dean transferred. They were in the ambulance and screaming out of the driveway within minutes.

Garrett headed for his truck, but Cote stopped him with a hand on his arm. He tried to yank away, but Cote didn’t let up his grip. For an old, out-of-shape man, he was surprisingly strong.

“You don’t know what Aspen was driving? You’re sure. She didn’t give you any idea?—?”

“We haven’t talked since last night. She was getting the rental this morning, but I haven’t talked to her since then.” He took a breath, let the question fully enter his brain. “Grace probably took her to get the car. Maybe she knows. She’d know where?—”

“What’s her number?”

Garrett pulled out his phone, navigated to Grace’s contact information, and held it out for Cote.

He lifted his own cell, then swore. “Where’s the house phone?”

“Kitchen.”

Cote started that direction.

“Dean just told me she didn’t do it.”

Cote reached the door that led to the kitchen but glanced back. “What did he say exactly?”

“He said, ‘Wasn’t her.’”

Cote nodded. “You’re sure? Because?—”

“He said it twice. ‘Wasn’t her.’”

The police chief looked around at the cops who’d streamed into the place. He seemed to be considering that. “Okay.” He leveled his gaze at Garrett again. “If that’s the case, then somebody else was here. Somebody was here. And she’s not. Which means?—”

“She’s in danger.”

“Either she’s a murderer, or she’s in the hands of one.” He stepped into the kitchen. A uniformed officer followed, and Garrett did a moment later.

A lamp, one Aspen had bought at Trudy’s the week before, lay on the floor. The uniformed officer crouched beside it. “That’s blood,” he said.

Blood.

Aspen’s blood?

Another uniformed police officer came in through the back door. “No sign anybody’s been out there. Garage is empty.”

Garrett stayed out of the way, hoping to hear something that would give him hope.

Cote had Aspen’s house phone pressed to his ear as he crouched down. He was talking to Grace, but Garrett didn’t pay attention to his words.

Pieces of ice and glass littered the floor, all resting in water. Someone had dropped a glass of water and made no effort to clean it up.

Two sets of wet footprints led from the kitchen and through the breakfast room. Two sets. Aspen’s and someone else’s. Garrett followed them into the living area and to the front door.

A uniformed cop had already seen the footprints. Garrett watched him as he stood from where he’d bent over the faintest ones on the stoop, then walked down the three steps to the walkway, gazing at the driveway.

The snow had started as flurries when they’d been headed up the mountain, but it had picked up. This storm was predicted to be a doozie, dropping a foot or more across the state before it was finished. The flakes were already sticking to the cold asphalt. Any tracks that might’ve been there would be covered up in minutes.

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