Page 6 of Cold as Hell

When she sees my expression, she sighs. “Yes, there are nightmares in my future, and I probably won’t be drinking for a while… or peeing in the woods. But you know what I mean. Go dive into my crime scene, Casey. Find whoever did this before they try again. That’s my real concern right now. That they’ll try again with another woman… and there won’t be a Sebastian to save her.”

CHAPTER TWO

As I head to the scene, I think about what Kendra just said.

Will Kendra’s attacker try again with someone else?

That depends on whether or not her attacker specifically targeted her.

If the intent was coerced sex, Kendra makes a prime target. She’s an attractive and vivacious young woman. The fact that she’s a lesbian might even be a factor. Some men can’t abide the idea that a pretty woman is off-limits.

For a nonsexual assault, hate crime would be the obvious motive. Otherwise, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Kendra. She’s one of our most popular residents and rivals Anders for our most popular staff member. Like Will Anders, she exudes that rare combination of charisma and genuine kindness. They’re the sort of people who never fail to ask how you are and actually care about the answer.

With Anders being our deputy, he’s obviously going to piss off some people. Kendra, though? In Haven’s Rock, she does social work—which is mostly problem-solving for residents who are struggling but don’t require our resident psychologistor psychiatrist. That means she isn’t dealing with those in crisis. She also does plumbing and leads hikes. While people are annoyed over the toilet situation, they all know it’s a supply issue and even the drunkest resident is hardly going to haul her off and beat her for that.

Also, “drunk” is relative in Haven’s Rock, where alcohol is strictly regulated. Getting seriously intoxicated isn’timpossible—you could stockpile your booze allotments at home and consume them before hitting the Roc. But Isabel—resident bar owner and psychologist—has an eagle eye for that.

Thinking of the Roc leads me to another consideration. April is going to run a tox screen on Kendra, but it certainly sounds as if she was dosed. If so, it happened in the Roc. That means whoever did it was there. That might not narrow things down as much as I like—people come and go all night—but it does mean her attacker had to be from Haven’s Rock.

We might live in the middle of the Yukon wilderness, but even up here, we are not alone. There are hunters and trappers and miners passing through, and most of them never know about our tiny hamlet. Structural and technological camouflage keeps us safe, but exposure threats do happen and we’re always ready for them.

Could those hunters, trappers, and miners realize we have women here and drag one out? Yes. The one lone local we know is Lilith, a nature photographer, who is not dragging Kendra into the woods for any reason. The real danger is the group who set up campafterwe built Haven’s Rock.

As we were building, a prospector discovered gold nearby, and his claim is now run by a small firm that made camp a few miles away. We expected them to leave in the winter, and they did not, which is far from the first suspicious thing about them. We were on high alert for months after an issue with them rocketed oursuspicion meter, but nothing has happened since. They’ve been perfect neighbors.

Could one of them have slipped into the Roc? No, our town is too small for strangers to enter unnoticed.

Yes, it’s easier if our culprit isn’t a stranger from the woods— or a miner from the neighboring camp. That gives me the fabled locked-room mystery, where Kendra’s attacker must be one of us. But it also means I can’t blame an outsider.

We are a town of refugees, of people who need sanctuary, of people who may have fled abusive partners, stalkers, or would-be killers. We promise them safety. And with this, we once again have failed to provide it.

I head to Kendra’s residence first. Being the middle of the night means no one is outside, and as soon as I leave the clinic, I can pick up the murmured voices of Dalton and Sebastian. Nights out here are always quiet, but winter seems deathly silent, with each footfall crunching like the crack of a gun.

When I peer up, I can barely make out the quarter moon. It’s a cloudy sky with no sign of the green that marks the northern lights. That sky makes me uneasy, as does the thaw. There’s no way in hell a Yukon winter ends in March. Even in May, the ice on the lake will just be starting to break. It’s much too early for a thaw, and there’s a crackle in the air that warns of the calm before a storm.

The temperature has plunged overnight, crusting the melting snow. On the main thoroughfares, though, the snow is too well-trodden and slushy for that, and the front deck of Kendra’s residence building is nothing but a puddling mass of footprints.

I snap a few photos on my phone. We don’t have Wi-Fi or even a cell signal, but a smartphone is so much more than that, and I am relieved to be able to take pictures again, instead of sketching everything.

I search for signs of a struggle in that mess of footprints, but see nothing to indicate dragging or even slipping, which is consistent with Kendra’s recollection that she wasn’t grabbed there.

When I peer out toward the voices, I see Dalton looking over at me, and I wave. He takes a half step my way, stops himself, and waves back. He might want to help me in case I slip, but I’m fine and it’s better to leave Kendra’s trail as untouched as possible.

“Untouched” in theory, that is. In reality, I can’t even see where she left the porch. It’s just slush, and even in spots where the snow has crusted, there are a dozen trails from people returning late yesterday evening.

I whistle for Storm, and that is apparently also my husband’s release signal. Sebastian stays behind with Raoul and only lifts a hand as if to let me know he’ll wait for my questions.

“I could handle this,” Dalton says as he approaches.

“But I’d like to.”

“Which is why I said ‘could.’ How’re you feeling?”

I haven’t even considered that. At this stage of my pregnancy, I’m so accustomed to lumbering around like my dog that I suspect after the baby is born, I’ll fall flat on my ass leaning backward for balance.

I won’t pretend I’m not looking forward to that time—being able to wear my clothing, being able to fit into my boots, not getting up three times every night to pee, and having ankles. You never know how much you’ll miss your ankles until they’re gone.

I’m five foot two, which means at eight months, I’m basically carrying a beach ball under my shirt. Or more like a weighted exercise ball… that kicks. Overall, though, I haven’t gained as much weight as I’d like, and I’m worried our baby will besmall. Too small? My obstetrician says no, but I’m lower in that percentile than I want to be.

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