Deserves to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Less than an eighth of a mile in, the trees parted to a clearing where a house had once stood. It was a shambles—the roof collapsed, charred boards visible through the snow, a river rock chimney standing but losing stones. One wall with a broken window was still upright, though listing, and the remains of a staircase, about five steps, climbed upward to end abruptly, leading nowhere. Obviously, a fire had destroyed the cabin, the singed branches of a few nearby trees in evidence. Over the rubble, snow had drifted, softening the angles, muting the blackened boards.

Ryder wasted no time. From the bed of his truck, he grabbed his cross-country skis and snapped them on to his boots. Then he clipped his snowshoes to his backpack and slid his arms through the straps. The pack held electronic gear as well as other items he might need.

As dawn broke, a gray light stealing through the trees, snow forever falling, he started moving through the trees, gliding on his skis while using the compass on his phone to make sure he was heading in the right direction. The snow was thick enough to make skiing easy and soon he came upon a fence that was in the same condition as the gate and house, totally broken down and neglected. Without any difficulty, he skied through a wide gap in the mesh. Avoiding fallen trees and sliding over a frozen stream, he wound his way toward where he thought Anne-Marie’s new residence might be. It took awhile. He had to double back once but finally caught a glimpse of a cabin through the trees. Carefully, he skied to the secondary row of evergreens surrounding the building and eyed it. No smoke trailed from the chimney, but the snow was mashed in the front of the cabin, multiple sets of tracks making ruts in the snow. The curtains were drawn, but it seemed as if no one was inside. He traded the cross-countries for his snowshoes and, after breaking off a low-hanging hemlock branch, he trekked across the shortest expanse of cleared area to the back of the house. After dumping his backpack onto the porch, he worked quickly, using a pick to open the lock, then took off his boots, and in his stocking feet, let himself inside.

The cabin was crude. Just the barest of essentials.

Quite a come-down for the princess.

The ancient cottage had none of the creature comforts she was used to. Located in this frigid section of the Bitterroots, her new, if temporary, residence was a far cry from the manicured lawns, graceful verandas and wide, magnolia flanked porches of her New Orleans home. No fancy paddle fans that moved the warm, sultry air of Louisiana, no white pillars or brick facades of the genteel Southern manor she was familiar with.

Nuh-uh. Just bare bones, and crappy bare bones at that.

No time for comparisons, he reminded himself, so he went to work. Quickly. Efficiently. The first order of business was to rule out that she’d set up her own security system. With a trained eye, he searched for any electronic equipment but found nothing. Next, he unfolded a small plastic sheet onto which he put all the pieces of his electronic equipment so that none would get lost. Then, he went about setting up tiny cameras and recorders, hiding them expertly. His training in the Special Forces served him well. Lastly, he hid the wireless transmitter. Military grade, it would broadcast to his receiver in his room at the River View.

Less than an hour after he’d arrived, he packed up his tools, walked out of the cabin, and relocked the door behind him. He stepped into his boots and after making certain the porch looked undisturbed, backed out within his original footsteps, using the hemlock branch to sweep them away. But if she returned in the next few hours, and there wasn’t enough time for the snowfall to obliterate the tracks, Anne-Marie would realize someone had been at her cabin and she’d bolt again. However, he was betting on the snowfall and her shift at the diner keeping her busy until long after his tracks had disappeared. His plan was far from foolproof, but it was the best he had.

At the edge of the woods, he traded his snowshoes for skis and again whisked away his tracks with the branch until he was a hundred yards or so into the forest. Then he took off, skiing rapidly next to his own ruts and reaching his truck quickly. He threw his gear into the bed of his Dodge, turned the pickup around, and drove to the main road where he stopped to re-latch the gate. Thankfully no one drove by as he was securing the place, and he only hoped that Anne-Marie didn’t miss her turn-off and happen to drive past this lane as she might notice that the snow had been disturbed.

If so, she’d run like a rabbit.

But this time, he’d be right on her tail.

Chapter 14

“You’re getting married? Like, soon?” Jeremy asked, dumbstruck. He was pulling a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator.

“In the next couple weeks.”

“Why?” Bianca had come out of her room at her mother’s request and was as shell-shocked as her brother. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“But . . . but . . . is he going to live here? Because I’m not moving!” Her little face was set and she tossed her dark curls away from her face. Blue eyes thinned suspiciously. “Why now?”

Here came the lie. At least a partial lie. “Because life is short. That really came home to roost this past week or so.”

Jeremy let the refrigerator door close. “Because of Sheriff Grayson.” He took a big swallow from the carton.

“Glass, please,” Pescoli said automatically.

> “Don’t talk about that. Too depressing,” Bianca said with a shudder. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a sweater that hung off one shoulder, showing the strap of her black bra.

“It is depressing,” Pescoli agreed.

“You’re getting married and he’s moving in here?” Bianca flounced into a kitchen chair. “This sucks.”

“No one’s moving anywhere yet. Santana and I haven’t even talked about that part yet. We just decided the other night. We’re planning on going to Vegas in a week or so. Depending.”

“Are we, like, invited?” Bianca asked, her ears perking up at the mention of Sin City.

“I haven’t got that far yet.”

“It’s your wedding, Mom!” her daughter declared.

“My third wedding. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“Well, it wasn’t like I could go to either one of the first two because I wasn’t born yet,” Bianca said. “Jeremy got to be there when you married Dad.”