Page 65 of Cold as Hell

The room goes silent and Yolanda stares, as if this might be my sister’s developing-but-odd sense of humor.

Then Yolanda says, “Oh,” and sways, and Anders darts forward to steady her. She doesn’t object until she realizes it and then brushes him off and lowers herself into another chair he’d dragged into the room earlier.

“That was blunt, wasn’t it?” April says.

“A little.” Yolanda tries for a twisted smile. “But better than cushioning it for me.” She leans forward, inhaling deeply. Her hand trembles, and when she notices it, she curses and shakes it hard. “Fucking tremors.”

“They worsen with stress,” April says. “But I suppose you know that.”

Yolanda gives another hard shake of her hands, as if that will help. Then she looks at me. “Is April right about Lynn?” At my sister’s small noise, she says, “Of course you’re right, April. You wouldn’t say it otherwise. I mean, are we sure that’s what happened or is that the theory?”

“We’re never absolutely certain,” I say. “But it’s the theory that fits the evidence, unless anyone else can come up with another one. Lynn was found naked, which can happen during hypothermia.”

“Getting naked?”

“Paradoxical undressing. There’s a medical explanation. It’s like a severe hot flash, and the person—already confused by the hypothermia—takes off their clothing. So that seemed to fit. We found some of her clothes before we found her. But then there were very light abrasions on her wrists and one ankle. We went back and found marks in the snow suggesting she’d been lying on her back with her arms and legs out. Abrasions on a tree and two bolt holes in the ice suggest where she’d been…” I hesitate to say “staked out” and go with “… tied up.”

“And the part about her killer watching her?” Yolanda fists her hands and tucks them away. “I know that might not matter. What counts is that she died…” She swallows hard. “Horribly.”

“But itdoesmatter,” Anders says. “It shows what kind of person we’re dealing with.”

Yolanda honestly looks like she’s going to be sick. I can argue that she inserted herself in this, and so we bear no responsibility. If I’d tried to dissuade her, she’d only have dug in her heels. But she didn’t live in Rockton. She hasn’t seen what we have. And whatever tough facade she adopts, that isn’t necessarily who she is underneath. I know that better than anyone. Looking as if nothing would faze you doesn’t mean you lack the empathy to understand what Lynn endured.

So I soften my tone as I say, “We found evidence that someone sat on a log facing where she’d been tied. Of course, that doesn’t prove they watched her—”

“He did,” Yolanda says. “That was the point. If he’s going to make someone die a terrifying death, he’s going to watch.” Her voice drips with disgust. “Otherwise, why bother.”

“I would agree,” April says. “I realize you don’t like to speak in absolutes, Casey, but it was a truly horrifying way to killsomeone. Sadistic. The point, I believe, of sadism is to observe the suffering.”

We all sit in silence as breakfast stays on the counter, untouched. Then I say, “Speaking of absolutes, though, we can’t be sure this was a man, so let’s not refer to them as he.”

“No sexual assault?” Yolanda says.

“No sign of it.”

“Then Kendra…” Her gaze shoots to me. “Are we presuming it’s the same person who tried to take Kendra?” Her shoulders hunch. “Thatthatwas supposed to happen to her?”

“The only clear link is the fact that we have one attempted and one successful abduction. I think that’s enough to link them in theory, but I’d like more.”

“Have we run a tox screen on Lynn?” Yolanda asks.

“It is inconclusive,” April answers.

“And I’m not sure she would have been drugged,” I say. “At least not in the same way Kendra was. It was a storm. Someone was pretending to help her get home and led her into the forest. While we don’t see signs of a struggle, she was dressed in heavy outerwear, as was her attacker.”

“Scratches wouldn’t show,” Anders says. “Even blows would have been cushioned.”

Yolanda says, “So she let him—them—undress her and tie her up without arguing?”

“She may have been in shock. She also may have just been doing as she was told, presuming it was an assault.”

“Get it over with,” Anders murmurs.

“Or feign compliancy and hope to lower her attacker’s guard,” I say.

Yolanda shakes her head. “I can’t see that. She knows she’s in trouble. She’s going to fight.”

I say nothing. Oh, I would argue—fiercely—in any othercircumstances. Yolanda might not intend it, but she’s skirting dangerously close to victim blaming. Sometimes fighting is the answer, and sometimes it’s not, and no one can say which they’d do until they’re there. At eighteen, my boyfriend and I faced three guys in an alley. They’d come for him. I fought. He fled. He survived… until I recovered enough to confront him.

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