Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Confused. Thought I was Leanna,” Kacey admitted. “Kinda like Tilly.” She managed a smile as she found plates and set them on the table. “I’m giving your son a pass. He’s on medication and just a kid. Tilly . . . I’m not so sure.”

“She’ll come around,” he said.

He served the dinner, and Kacey, seated on a beat-up kitchen chair that looked to be at least fifty years old, had to admit Tilly’s killer chicken was the best meal she’d eaten since Thanksgiving with Maribelle, maybe better.

They ate in silence. The chicken was succulent, and the beans were seasoned with soy sauce and garlic. Even the mashed potatoes, tasting slightly of butter and sour cream melted in her mouth and really didn’t need the gravy that she’d ladled on, anyway.

“Okay,” Kacey admitted, once her plate was nearly empty. “So she can cook. And knit. And didn’t you say play checkers?”

“And a lot more. Give her a chance.”

“If she gives me one.”

“No promises there,” he teased. “I’m going out and double-checking the stock. Make sure all the hatches are battened down. Wanna come?”

She glanced out the window just as a gust of bitter wind rattled the shutters. “You know, I think I’ll pass,” she said. “Stay in with Eli and clean up the kitchen.”

“Can’t get a better offer than that.”

She watched him put on his jacke

t again, long arms sliding through the sleeves. What was it about him she found so damned attractive? She, who had always been interested in professional men, city guys.

Like JC?

Or maybe a guy who is more like one of Gerald Johnson’s sons, not the men themselves, but a man in a suit and tie, with an uptight attitude?

“Nope,” she said aloud.

With both dogs on his heels, Trace made his way outside to check on the cattle and horses for the night. Kacey, meanwhile, cleaned the kitchen, then settled onto the couch with her laptop. The TV, turned to an all-news channel, was still at a decibel level loud enough to cause her permanent hearing loss, so she scrounged in the cushions of the couch until she found the spot where the remote control had fallen, then softened the volume.

Currently, a weatherman was standing in front of a screen showing parts of Montana, Idaho, and Canada. With a sweeping movement of his arm, he explained how arctic air was blasting down from Saskatchewan and Alberta to dump somewhere between eighteen inches and three feet of snow in the next forty-eight hours. “Looks like we’ll be getting that white Christmas a few weeks early,” he said happily, then cut to a reporter standing near the interstate, shivering and reporting on the freezing weather conditions as semis rolled down the highway behind her.

A second later the television screen changed, and the image of Elle Alexander was visible. “The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Office is asking for your help in locating the vehicle that may have pushed a local Dodge minivan off the road and into the Grizzly River,” an anchor said as the screen switched to that section of road, right before the North Fork Bridge, where in the snow, flowers and candles had been left to mark the spot where Elle Alexander had lost her life. Minutes later the news was reporting on the death of a “lone cross-country skier,” whose name hadn’t yet been released pending notification of next of kin.

She drew a breath, then hit the mute button, hearing the storm outside really start to rage, the wind shrieking, a branch beating against the house. A glance at the clock told her Trace had been gone nearly half an hour. He should be back soon, she figured.

After walking into the kitchen, she stared through the window and told herself to relax. Her gaze followed the path broken in the snow as it led to the outbuildings.

There was another path as well, smaller, going around the side of the house and almost obscured by the new snow.

Odd.

But then Tilly and Ed had been here with Eli and Sarge. Perhaps one of them had taken Sarge outside . . . ? Tilly, probably, since the path was thin and she couldn’t imagine Ed’s size twelves tamping down the snow like that.

Except, of course, the new-fallen snow changed the footprints, softened them, and made them appear smaller.

Huh.

She told herself not to worry, not to let the recent accidents, her own house being compromised, or her supposed poisoning get the better of her. She was safe. Here. With Trace.

And yet the feeling that something wasn’t right here hung with her. “Just a new place,” she whispered, wishing one of the dogs had stayed in the house with Eli and her. With one last look at the fast-disappearing path, she returned to the living room, where the crackling fire dispelled some of her unease. Curling up on the couch again, she opened up her laptop and did a little more research on Gerald Johnson, his company, and his family.

Your family.

“Never,” she said aloud as the lights flickered once and a branch began beating against the side of the house like it was trying to get inside.

Again, she glanced at the back door, wishing Trace would return. Other noises assailed her: timbers creaking, the common sounds of an old house settling, the squeak and soughing of tree limbs rubbing against each other. Telling herself she was letting her nerves get the better of her, she fought a ridiculous panic attack and turned her attention away from the dark night beyond. She Googled everyone in the Johnson family and remembered her own impressions of Gerald and his children.