Cold

by Max Monroe

  Cold

  A Stone Cold Fox Novel

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2018, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9989430-9-1

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Lisa Hollett, Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Photo Credit: iStock Photo

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  COLD: BOOK TWO

  INTRO

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREVIEW OF FOX

  To the women with ambitious eyes and thirsty hearts:

  You are capable of everything.

  To the women with dry mouths and thirsty throats:

  Drink water.

  Or wine.

  Or vodka.

  To our readers:

  Your hunger for Levi and Ivy’s story warms our angsty little hearts.

  Your hunger for tacos is what makes us friends.

  COLD: BOOK TWO

  I wanted a second chance. What I got was a repeat.

  She was too beautiful. Too smart. And her emerald green eyes saw too much.

  I wanted space—she took it away.

  I craved her lips—she gave me her kiss.

  I screwed it up—she got smart.

  Avoiding me is the right thing to do. I’m messed up, tortured, and probably always will be.

  But I still want her.

  Her mind. Her body. Her heart.

  I want it all.

  And this time, I’m in control.

  No matter what I have to do, I will make her mine.

  THE WASHINGTON TIMES

  Tragedy strikes in Cold, Montana…again.

  A police officer dies in the line of duty while stopping the man the world has come to know as the Cold-Hearted Killer.

  Just twenty-four hours ago, heartbreak ravaged the small town of Cold, Montana for a fifth and final time. Detective Grace Murphy with the Cold Police Department was killed in the process of apprehending the man responsible for kidnapping and murdering four other Montana women.

  October 30th, 2010

  COLD—Authorities say just one month after Bethany Johnson went missing—the fourth Cold, Montana woman within the span of seven months—the Cold-Hearted Killer has been stopped by the heroic efforts of Detective Grace Murphy. She was too late to save twenty-four-year-old Bethany Johnson, but it is clear to everyone her sacrifice stopped this predatory serial killer from taking more lives.

  The Cold-Hearted Killer has been identified.

  In a press conference this morning at Cold’s town hall, Chief Red Pulse officially released the name of the Cold-Hearted Killer.

  Walter Donald Gaskins was a seasoned family physician for more than thirty years and the city’s recently elected Coroner.

  Walter Donald Gaskins was a well-respected member of the small community inside Cold, Montana and the last person these rattled townspeople expected to go on a killing spree that resulted in the deaths of five women.

  “Our trust as a community has been compromised,” Chief Pulse said during the early morning press conference. “No one in this town would have expected one of our own, someone we deeply trusted and respected, to be capable of such horrific acts. I can say with complete certainty it will take our small community time to heal and find closure from such a devastating sequence of events.”

  When reporters asked Chief Pulse about the police officer who died in the line of duty, the emotion on his face was visible to all.

  “Grace Murphy was like a daughter to me. She was loved by this town. And her loss has affected us beyond words, not only because she was a fellow officer, but because she was one of us. She was family,” he said before pausing briefly to compose himself. “I’m sure once the shock has worn off, grief will set in, and I pray that we as a community will come together and support one another through this very difficult time.”

  Questions have arisen as to why the FBI was not involved in this case, and if the Cold Police Department and Chief Pulse handled the case correctly. A spokesperson for the department maintains that since the murders did not cross state lines, it was not a legal obligation to involve national authorities.

  Officials stated Grace Murphy went to Walter Gaskins’s house because of a possible disturbance call on October 29th. When she’d entered the premises, she quickly found the last victim, Bethany Johnson, but unfortunately, it was too late. The victim had most likely been dead for several hours. It was after that crucial discovery, a shootout between her and Gaskins occurred.

  Detective Murphy took her last breath before paramedics arrived.

  Officer Levi Fox arrived on the scene for backup seven minutes later, but Grace Murphy had already received two fatal gunshot wounds to the chest. Shortly after, Gaskins received his fate by a fatal shot to the head by Officer Levi Fox.

  While the names of the those involved have been released, many details still have not been.

  “I understand there are a lot of questions regarding the details of this case, but I am asking for patience as we not only investigate the crime scene, but also mourn the loss of one of our own,” Chief Pulse stated at the end of the press conference. “Thank you for your understanding and your time.”

  Many people around the nation offered condolences and prayers for the community of Cold, Montana through emails and social media posts, as well as donations for the victims’ families through an online portal.

  Not only is this tragedy heartbreaking, it is also disturbing.

  With all of the horrific details surrounding the case, it’s hard to imagine this community can rest easy tonight just because a serial killer is off their streets. It’s difficult to fathom anyone could find peace in the fact that the Cold-Hearted Killer’s terror didn’t end with his and the victims’ deaths, but instead, will reign on. His signature, his words, his official photographs will forever be on the autopsy reports of his victim’s bodies.

  Walter Gaskins’s motives for murder are still unclear to everyone who has been following this case. Which brings us to the question on
everyone’s mind today—why would a well-respected, well-liked member of the Cold community turn on his own?

  It appears, to the Cold-Hearted Killer, there was a thin line between love and pain.

  “You’re not stopping me!” I yelled, storming out of Ruby Jane’s while Levi chased after me. His footsteps, quick and harsh, sounded just as angry as his yelling had.

  Loving or fighting, we could never seem to escape this place without making a scene.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he challenged, grabbing me by the upper arm and turning me to face him. “You can’t just go rogue on this. It’s not safe,” he said, and he lowered his voice, softening it around the edges as if I were some sort of wounded animal he was trying to lure to safety. “It’s not right. And you have no idea what you could be getting yourself into.”

  But I wasn’t a fucking wounded animal. I was a woman who would do everything in her power to find justice and to make things right, no matter what cost it might have to me.

  “Oh yeah?” I sneered. “I know just as well as you do. I know as well as Bethany and Carly and Victoria and Emily all do.” Each name that fell off my tongue might as well have been a dagger straight to my heart.

  The girls. The defenseless, innocent, victimized girls.

  “That’s a low blow,” Levi breathed, his voice rougher than normal and frayed at the edges. “I’m doing my best. Doing my best to honor them and to find her and to protect you all at once. God, can’t you see that?”

  Pain and want and desperation made my blood burn. I felt restless and manic and as if, no matter what I did, nothing would ever feel settled again.

  “All I see is some macho asshole thinking he knows better than me.”

  Levi stepped back, dropping my arms from the X he’d formed with them against his chest. Distrust and disbelief swirled between us, and I had to work hard to keep air moving between my mouth and my lungs.

  “You think that?” he gritted, all of the sapphire blue in his eyes muddied with dirty brown. I’d smeared his name and his intentions, and the insult surrounded him like a cloak. “That’s really what you think of me?”

  My heartbeat kicked and thudded in my chest as I considered what I knew—all of the things about the Cold-Hearted Killer I’d found out. How I had to do this to protect him.

  I opened my mouth to say the word, the confirmation all that was left on the to-do list of my plan. But the wind whipped, moving his hair away from the line of his face, and his agony took over.

  I was ruining this. Ruining us. And I just knew, if I went through with it, we would never be the same.

  The silence was answer enough, though, filling in the word when I couldn’t.

  Levi’s face closed down, and my heart shattered.

  “Don’t worry about me thinking I know better, Grace. You just proved, when it comes to you, I don’t know anything.”

  Straight as an arrow, I sat up in my bed, panting and grasping the sheets at my sides. I felt overwhelmed and confused, and getting my bearings was a near impossibility.

  I surveyed the empty room and eased my mind slowly, knowing none of what I’d been dreaming—none of the too-clear words, the too-familiar bleating pulse of my heart—could have been real.

  All the yelling, all the heartbreak—it’d been Grace’s, not mine. I’d just become so well entrenched in my character I was dreaming as her.

  That didn’t explain the depth of emotion or the ruggedly clear vision of Levi’s face, but I couldn’t open up a door I’d long since closed. I couldn’t let myself question the decision to cut Levi out of my life for the good of us both, and I couldn’t bother myself with the complications of his and Grace’s fictionalized problems. I couldn’t. I had enough to worry about on my own.

  A shiver ran up my spine, and I pulled the comforter closer.

  Wind bumped a small tree against the bedroom window, and the TV I’d left on hummed softly in the background.

  But Levi wasn’t there, and neither was Grace.

  It was just me—and dreams of their movie.

  A nightly routine the cruelest of powers had decided to set on repeat.

  With my hands clutched around the comforter like it had the power to soothe my nerves, I stared across the dark space of the room and tried to fight against the onslaught I knew was coming. For nights upon nights, I’d been plagued with the unrest of someone else’s fight, and if the routine remained consistent, this was just the beginning.

  I had hours left to toss and turn and several arguments left to have. Reality would once again blur with fiction, and nightmares would catch me in their snare as soon as I closed my eyes.

  The distraught look in Levi’s eyes and the guttural desperation in his voice would find me again.

  I wasn’t one to believe in psychics or mediums or anything that suggested there was a way to predict the future or see the reality of the past.

  But this dream. It shook me. To my very core.

  It left me bereft in a sea of unknowns and wondering…what if there’s more to this?

  The metal frame of the sign hung over the entrance, only stabilized by two, ivy-covered pillars, and beckoned visitors inside.

  Cold Cemetery, it read.

  As a kid, I’d liked coming here. Strolling the plots and acquainting myself with all of the people who had passed. Sometimes it was someone I’d heard of, someone I’d known through my family, but other times, it was a stranger. Someone’s life I knew nothing about but could surmise—all from the things their loved ones had written about them in permanent block letters.

  Cemeteries weren’t known for being welcoming places, but to me, this was one of the only places all people seemed good.

  Loving wives and nurturing mothers, no one ever wrote about how hollow-hearted or self-centered their relatives were. And some of them were. They had to be. I had the proof in the parents I’d been given to show for it.

  Lazarus Fox. In life, he’d been an egocentric prick with little to no fatherly abilities. But here, I could almost believe he was a father, a son, and a well-respected townsperson, just as his grave proclaimed.

  I moved past his headstone without pausing and through the little gate in the middle. When we were wild teenagers, Grace and I would often sneak out of school and eat lunch on one of the stone benches beneath a big oak tree. She’d loved being there almost as much as being anywhere else, and I’d pushed her mom to get her a plot as close to that tree as possible after she’d died, instead of next to her father’s grave, way on the other side.

  Phil Murphy had died when she was just a toddler, in a drunk driving accident.

  He was the drunk.

  Grace hadn’t wanted anything to do with him or his memory. Grandpa Sam had been all the father figure she’d needed.

  And now, what was once our secret spot, under the shade of an old oak with life-filled leaves and roots to Cold, a place only the two of us shared, had become the one and only place I could go to see her.

  Irony at its finest.

  My boots crunched in the ice-covered snow as I made my way to her resting place.

  Today, there was no weather; no wind, no clouds—just subzero temperatures.

  The path glistened like white quartz, mere ice crystals and snow on weary concrete.

  Beauty and glitz over everything dead.

  The small bouquet of white roses felt weighty in my black-gloved hand.

  A few feet from her headstone, I paused, and my breath rose in visible puffs.

  It’d been a while since I’d come here, to her resting place. Most days I couldn’t stand the quiet. To be alone with my thoughts was the complete opposite of what I found desirable in my quest to be numb. The rug was always heavy when I lifted it to sweep pain and the past underneath it, but I’d never been able to consider leaving it down to trudge over. Using the bristles to wipe away the stains and blood and heartbreak that had dirtied me in the first place.

  But years of sticking to the old hollow strategy had brought me
here—to a place where I avoided my own emotions and hurt people in the process. To a place where I needed Grace’s wisdom about a new woman in my life.

  I hoped the proximity to the remains of my best friend and the gift of flowers would close the gap between us for a moment, even if it was so very brief, because I desperately needed her advice.

  Grace Elizabeth Murphy, her headstone read.

  Loving daughter, granddaughter, friend.

  True to her name, Grace was in her every step, heaven in her eyes, and in every gesture: dignity and strength and love.

  Unlike some of the others, the words carved into her eternal resting place were true.

  “Hi, little gem,” I whispered in the still, frigid air. The sensation of the nickname leaving my lips felt foreign, and my eyes widened in surprise.

  It’d been years since I’d said those two words.

  Years since I’d been a goofy nine-year-old boy, with a special interest in letters and irony. Years since I’d noticed that the pretty girl with the fire-red hair had initials that spelled the word gem.

  I’d found it amusing, and secretly, I’d agreed.

  It hadn’t taken much for anyone to realize that Grace Murphy was a gem. A truly rare, special human being with a heart bigger than the state of Montana.

  That nickname had stuck, and even when she was a full-fledged police officer, the woman who wore a badge just like mine, the one who’d proven she’d give her life to save someone else, she was still a gem to me.

  “Right now is one of those times I wish you were here to talk to,” I whispered and ran the tips of my gloves over the edge of her headstone. “It’s bizarre, I know, coming to you about another woman, but I also know you’d probably know all the right things to say.”