Page 40 of Cold as Hell

Shit. Not helpful.

“Okay,” I call back. “I’ll shut up now.”

I swear I hear a chuckle, even over the sound of the trees groaning in the wind.

I rock back on my heels and look around. The glove suggests Lynn was out here.

She could have crossed the first perimeter trail and had her prints fill in. Being so close to town, if she’d happened to cross in a more open spot, snow would have fallen thick enough to hide her tracks. Also, we’re only two-thirds of the way around this outer perimeter trail—maybe her tracks are just up ahead.

I tap my boot as I wait for Dalton. I want to get moving, but I also need him to be thorough. To temper my impatience, I sit on a nearby fallen log. At least I’ll be off my feet for a few minutes.

It’s at least ten minutes before Dalton finally comes out, and when he does, I don’t even see him until Storm thrusts her snowy head in my face, checking to be sure I’m okay. I glance up to realize I can barely see Dalton, even though he’s only a few feet away. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed how bad it’d gotten.

Seeing Storm’s alarm, he crosses those last two steps at a run.

“I’m fine!” I say, shouting to be heard over the wind. “Just sat down to rest.”

I put out my arms, and he pulls me to my feet.

“Nothing?” I say.

He shakes his head and waves toward town.

I motion for him to bend down. When he does, I say in his ear, “Can we finish the trail? Go back to town that way? I want to be sure, and we only have a few hundred feet left.”

He nods and motions that he’ll move in front. The wind is coming from that direction. He puts Storm in front of him so she can keep sniffing. Then he ties his scarf around his arm and hands me the end.

I do not roll my eyes. Oh, I want to, and I doubt he’d noticewith the snow blasting between us, but I still don’t. I take the end and try not to feel like a toddler on a day-care expedition. Then he sets out, and I must admit—with my belly and my snowsuit—Idotoddle along behind him.

I’m soon grateful for the scarf. If I get even a step behind Dalton, a gust of snow swallows his dark figure. More than once I feel a tug and realize I’ve started veering off the path.

Thick conifers should line the trail, but I can’t see them even when I squint. When a snow-laden branch appears at my shoulder, I jump as if it sprang at me. Wind blasts my face, and I duck my head down to focus on my boots, as if I can see them between my stomach and the snow.

I truly am a child in those moments, trundling along with that scarf in my hand. I said I wanted to watch for spots where Lynn might have crossed the trail, but I wouldn’t see blazing neon footprints.

My nose goes numb, and I use my free hand to pull up my own scarf. That reminds me Dalton doesn’t have his on. His face is exposed to the wind. I want to tell him to put the scarf back on and I’ll hold his coat, but I can’t get his attention. He’s plowing forward, just like me, both of us trudging along, as if there’s a hope in hell of seeing—

I smack into Dalton’s back. He’s standing there with his hand out as he points off the path. I have no idea what he’s indicating. I only see a wall of white.

Dalton motions for me to wait as he takes one step off the path. I can dimly make out him reaching forward. When his hand comes back, it’s holding something bright red.

Something soaked in blood.

My heart picks up speed, and I start toward it, but he’s already moving it my way. I reach one gloved hand out… and realize it’s not blood. It’s red fabric.

No, it’s red knit. A scarf? I take it in both hands, feeling along it as I try to make out what I’m seeing through the damn snow.

Not a scarf. A… sweater?

I hold it up by the shoulders. It’s a woman’s sweater.

In my mind, I see Lynn yesterday in the store. Dressed in dark chinos and…

A red sweater.

My heart hammers. I keep running my hands over the thick wool, as if I’m seeing wrong. I’m not. This is a sweater, and it looks like the one Lynn was wearing yesterday.

Dalton’s gone back to root around where he found it. I hold out the sweater to Storm, who’s come over to see what I have. I lower it, and she takes a deep sniff, as if it’s hard to catch the scent with the wind. Then she signals. Yes, this belongs to her target.

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