Page 39 of Cold as Hell

What we don’t have a shortage of? People happy to do this particular job, because of the method we employ—a narrow-bodied ATV with a snow blade. Gunnar, Kendra, and Sebastian draw straws to see who gets to do it. This means that the path had been cleared down to a few inches before the storm, and it’s only ankle-deep. That should also mean that we’d see tracks if anyone came out here last night. We don’t… until we do.

Other trails intersect with this one, trails that head deeper into the forest, and we find footprints at one of those intersections, where trees do an excellent job of sheltering the path. There are deep divots, like the ones we saw from Sebastian.

“Storm?” I say, pointing at the tracks.

She side-eyes me.

“What’sthatlook for?” I say as I tap one print. “Is this Lynn?” I shake the bag containing the scent samples. “Is it this?”

Storm lowers her head and whines.

Dalton starts toward us. Then he stops and shakes his head. “You’re trying to decide whether this is a joke, huh, pup? And if it’s not, you really don’t want to insult our intelligence.”

“Huh?”

The word barely leaves my mouth before I see what he means. There are other, much smaller divots near the first ones. And one reason those divots show up? Something had been dragged along the path, compressing the snow around them.

“Shit,” I say, rocking back. “These are our prints, from yesterday.”

“Yep. From us heading back. Storm and me walking, and you on the sled.”

I ruffle Storm’s fur. “Sorry about that. Okay, let’s keep going.”

We continue along the path until Storm goes rigid, head swinging up. She sniffs the air. Then she practically bounds off the path into snow up to her belly. Dalton waves for me to stay where I am, in the much shallower snow. While the recent warm temperatures started melting snow in town, it’s different here in the thick woods, where we’ll find patches clear into June.

When my alarm vibrates, I discreetly turn it off. Dr. Kapoor said the one-hour limit was out of an abundance of caution. I’ll take another half hour and then get home.

Dalton steps off the path and sinks past his boots. That doesn’t seem so bad… until you try walking in it. I’ve had to go off trail and accidentally stepped in almost to my waist. Try lifting your foot when you’re thigh-deep in snow. I’d had to practically swim out, all the while imagining myself falling face-first and being unable to rise, trapped under snow.

The answer is snowshoes. We didn’t bring them on this walk,which means Dalton’s left doing a lot of grunting and grabbing for trees to lever himself along. Meanwhile, our dog has nearly disappeared through the swirling snow.

“Stay there,” Dalton says, and I’m not sure which of us he’s speaking to. Probably both.

A gust whips the snow thick enough that I lose sight of them both for a moment. Then it dies down, and I spot Dalton’s jacket with his bright orange scarf. Yes, we kept the high-visibility staff scarves I instituted back in Rockton. Dalton’s wearing one and so is Storm, with a kerchief around her neck. With this weather, though, I’m starting to think we need full high-visibility vests, too. For both of them.

“Got something!” Dalton shouts back. “Stay there!”

My heart pounds. “Is it Lynn?”

A fresh gust of wind—and accompanying whine—cuts off his next words, and I need to ask him to repeat himself.

“It’s a glove,” he shouts back. “Storm says it’s hers.”

I lift one foot, ready to barrel over there until common sense kicks in. I grit my teeth against a surge of frustration.

“Can you keep searching?” I say. “In that area?”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“What’s Storm indicating?”

A pause, and I know I’m being a pain in the ass. Dalton is trying to work, and I’m that annoying supervisor asking for a running commentary.

“Nothing,” he says. “She’s snuffling around, but she doesn’t smell anything. I don’t see any sign of passage either. It’s thick brush.”

“Where was the glove?”

“Caught on a tree. As if it blew there.”

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