The ice heaved behind her.
She threw a panicked glance over her shoulder. Something moved.
It was under the ice. Coming toward her.
A dark form in the water sliding right up against the underbelly of the ice.
She stared at it in horror.
It couldn’t be—
A long crack split the ice straight between her feet.
A hand shot through the crack, chips of ice flying off blue fingers, and locked around her ankle before she could move.
It yanked her over.
She fell, crashing through the ice.
Cold.
The water was so cold.
It shocked the air out of her lungs.
She flung her arms out, trying to push herself up to the surface.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. It pushed her down.
She struggled, kicking as hard as she could to propel herself upward. Her lips, then her nose cleared the surface of the water.
She gulped in air.
A hand grabbed her hair. It yanked her head back viciously. Pulling her, pulling her. Pulling her under.
No!
She arched her back, trying to escape. But the hands were too strong.
She closed her eyes. The water rushed over her. Smoothing the surface of the lake over her head as if she’d never been there.
Her lungs burned. But her flesh was cold. So cold it hurt.
She kicked, flailing her arms, trying to reach air again.
The hands grabbed her neck.
They squeezed.
Throttling one last bubble of air from her throat.
She opened her eyes.
And stared straight into the eyes of Craig Peters.
“No!” Kate bolted upright. Her fingers fought to free themselves of the sheets tangled around them. She clawed at her throat.
“Kate! Kate!”
A man’s voice invaded her consciousness.
She leaped from the bed.
“Kate, it’s okay,” the man said, reaching toward her. His voice was soothing. She backed away from the naked man with the powerful arms. Then she realized it was Curtis. The man she’d slept with only hours before. “Kate, you had a bad dream. Are you okay?” He tried to pull her against his chest but she stepped back. She stared at him.
“Kate, say something.”
Her mind struggled to break free of the terror submerging it.
“Kate, please.” Curtis ran a hand through his hair. “Say something. You’re freaking me out.”
Alaska lurched to his feet and nosed her leg.
“I’m okay.” Her whole body was covered in goose bumps. She rubbed her hands over her arms. “I’m fine.”
He reached for her again. She flung out her hand. “Don’t. Please.”
His arm fell. “Sorry.”
Silence covered them.
Kate longed to wrap herself in the sheet, but Curtis stood between her and the bed.
He seemed to sense her awkwardness, because he grabbed the throw off the foot of the bed and drew it around her shoulders. He pulled on his boxers, then reached for his pants.
“No.” Her voice was startling in the stillness of the room. “Don’t go, Curtis. Please.” She forced herself to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be alone.”
His eyes met hers. “I don’t blame you.” He led her back to the bed. After she settled herself down on one side, he lay down next to her. But he didn’t touch her. Instead, he said very softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Part of her longed to share the terror, but she knew it wasn’t something that could be described. It could only be felt.
“No. But thank you.”
She closed her eyes. She listened to Curtis’ even breathing. Eventually, he fell back asleep.
Daylight was only a few hours away.
13
Saturday, 2:04 a.m.
Detective Ethan Drake pulled in front of the house on Point Pleasant Drive and took a quick swig of his herbal tea. He grimaced. What he really wanted was coffee. Preferably coffee that had been sitting on a burner for far too long. Black, thick, bitter coffee.
But the ulcer he’d developed over the winter made him pay—in spades—every time he gave in to his craving.
He stuck the mug back in his cup holder, grabbed his notebook and hurried over to the sergeant waiting for him at the end of the driveway.
“Ident here yet?” he asked Sergeant Sue MacLeod by way of greeting.
She glanced over his shoulder. “They’re just pulling in.”
He turned and saw the van slow down in front of the house.
“Where’s the victim?”
“She’s around back. Looks like she fell off a balcony.”
“Fell, tossed or jumped?”
Sue shook her head. “Hard to say. She’s got two kids. The son, who is about fifteen, says he heard something but didn’t see what happened.”
“What about the other kid?”
“She’s twelve. She was asleep, she says. She only woke up when she heard someone running down the stairs.” The sergeant shrugged. “But I just have a feeling about this. Thought you should come and do a prelim, anyway.”
He nodded. Sue MacLeod was a good cop. She’d covered a lot of scenes. She wouldn’t have called him in at two in the morning unless she thought it was worth it.
Two Forensic Identification Services detectives approached them. They were dressed in uniform—not bunny suits—and carried their cameras in one hand, evidence markers in another. Their cargo pockets bulged with swabs, magna powder to dust for fingerprints, fingerprint lifters and clear tape for collecting fiber and hair samples.
Ethan nodded to the Ident guys. “We’ll do a prelim to start with. See if we come up with anything that requires us to hold the scene.”
Sue headed to the backyard. “She’s around here.”
“Name?” Ethan asked, falling into step beside her.
“Elise Vanderzell. She’s visiting from Toronto, according to her children.”
“Anyone else home?”
“No. The kids were on their own when I got here. They’re staying in this house while the owner is in New Zealand.”
“What about the husband? Is he in Toronto?”
“No. He lives here. But no one has been able to reach him.”
“Is he away?”
The sergeant shook her head. “Apparently the victim and her kids traveled from Toronto to see him. They arrived around 5:30 p.m. He showed up just after that but left.”
“So she arrives this afternoon and is dead by tonight…” Ethan murmured. “Not a great way to start a vacation.”
Sue gave him a warning look. “The kids are still with their mother.”
They rounded the corner and stopped, scanning the scene. The fire department had set up lights so the grounds were well lit.
Two Emergency Health Services technicians were putting away their equipment. Fire personnel were carrying ladders back to the truck. One of the FIS guys peeled away from the group and began placing markers for photographing.
In the middle of all this uniformed bustle sat two kids. Blankets draped their shoulders. A patrol officer crouched awkwardly with them on the grass. Neither of them paid attention to him. Both kids just hugged their knees. Both stared at their mother. She lay by the top of a concrete stairwell that led to a basement door. Ethan bit back a sigh. It was obvious that where she had been placed wasn’t where she had fallen. Her body was straight, although her gown was rumpled around her knees. A large pool of blood was adjacent to her body but not under her head, yet the signs of massive head injury were obvious even from a distance.
The other Ident guy knelt by the victim. Ethan followed him, planting himself between the victim and the kids.
“It’s time for the kids to go inside,” Ethan said to the uniformed constable.
The girl stood obediently, but the boy just raised sullen eyes. “I’m not leaving her.”
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked, his tone gentle.
“Nick.”
“Nick,” he said, “this isn’t something you need to see.”
The young man’s jaw clenched. “I’m not leaving her.”
His sister threw him an alarmed look.
Ethan gave a subtle nod to the constable. The constable leaned down and grasped Nick’s arm. “I’m sorry, but this is police protocol. We are conducting an investigation. We need to examine her.” Nick’s eyes dropped. What kid would want to see their dead mother being examined for trace evidence?
The constable tugged gently on Nick’s arm. “Let’s go, Nick.” The teen stood, his stance suggesting defiance but his eyes expressing defeat. He pulled his arm from the constable’s grasp and looked at his sister. “Come on, Luce.”
Ethan watched the brother and sister leave. Their bodies leaned toward one another, but whenever the sister got too close the brother shifted away.
They needed to get a child worker in first thing tomorrow to interview these kids.
The Ident guy was taking photos of the victim’s body, starting at midrange, then moving in for close-ups.
“Can I have a quick look at her?” Ethan asked the FIS technician. He wanted to get a feel for the victim before examining the crime scene. The detective nodded, lowering his camera. Ethan knelt carefully by Elise Vanderzell.
Did she know she was about to die when she arrived this afternoon? he wondered as he studied her empty eyes.
That was the million-dollar question. They’d have to check for signs of suicide—a note, prescription drugs, depressed behavior. Other signs, like putting out garbage when it wasn’t garbage day or excessive cleaning, were unlikely, as she had only just arrived.
A dark, glistening mask of blood on one side of her face had the effect of highlighting her pure bone structure. She was a beautiful woman, Ethan realized. And in the prime of her life, judging from the toned limbs revealed by her spaghetti-strap nightgown.
No markings on her neck. Just a smooth column that fanned out into tanned shoulders and swelling breasts. He scanned her nightgown inch by inch. The FIS detective would use a Lumalight to look for hidden stains—semen, in particular—but the only thing that was visible to Ethan’s gaze was a tear in the fabric near the hip of her nightgown. Had it caught on the edge of the balcony when she fell? Or was it a sign of a struggle?
There was a massive bruise on one shin and one of her toenails was broken. He studied her arms. She wore no jewelry. Was that a faint bruise on the wrist? It was hard to tell. Again, he would need the pathologist to determine the injuries and date them.
Her fingers bore no marks of struggle.
He stood. All in all, a fairly nondescript body in terms of evidence. What he observed could easily be explained away if she had hit the balcony or a wall as she fell.
He studied the balcony. It acted as a fire escape, as well, with a set of wooden stairs running diagonally across each floor of the house. Decorative wrought-iron plant hooks had been mounted on the posts at each staging. Those could certainly do some damage to the fine skin of a scalp. FIS would have to examine them to see if any trace could be found and analyze the blood spatter dotting the fire escape to see when and how the trauma had occurred.
Sue MacLeod hurried toward him, her broad, hunched form sending gnomelike shadows across the deep yard. Ethan turned and surveyed the property. His heart sank. An extremely tall hedge enclosed the terraced garden. “Shit,” he muttered to Sue. “No one would be able to see anything through those trees.”
“Or the hedges,” Sue added. The yard was extremely private, to the delight, Ethan was sure, of its owner.
“Could you see any houses from up there?” Ethan jerked his head toward the balcony that hung over them.
“Not too many.”
“Get patrol to start canvassing any houses that could possibly have a view.”
Sue nodded. “Will do. But don’t hold your breath.”
He grimaced. He doubted they were going to come up with any witnesses, given the shield of foliage. “Let’s see what the bedroom tells us.”
Bedrooms, in his experience, held many secrets.
And, remembering the beautiful, damaged face of the victim, he bet that Elise Vanderzell’s was no exception.
14
Saturday, 2:24 a.m.
Several patrol cars blocked the driveway, lights flashing. Every other second, the lights flickered over a red Volkswagen Beetle, spotlighting the haphazard parking job done by its owner.
A distraught family member.
From the gray hair and the familiar embrace she gave the victim’s daughter—who sobbed brokenly into the older woman’s shoulder—Ethan guessed the owner of the red Beetle was the girl’s grandmother. He was glad to see the kids had a family member to comfort them. Even better, she might know the whereabouts of the victim’s husband.
Sue headed to one of the patrol cars to get the canvass organized. Ethan walked toward the girl and the older woman. They stood near the last patrol car. Ethan glanced in the backseat and saw the son, Nick, slumped with his head in his hands.
The older lady lifted her head, throwing a concerned glance at Nick as Ethan approached, but did not relinquish her hold on the girl.
“I’m Detective Ethan Drake.”
“Penelope Barrett,” she said, her eyes assessing him. “Their grandmother.” She hugged the girl a little tighter.
“I came as fast as I could,” the grandmother added, more for the girl’s benefit than for his, Ethan guessed. “I left home as soon as Lucy called me. But it’s a forty-minute drive from Prospect. Where I live.”
She did look as if she’d run from her bed, her short gray hair swirling around her head, a pair of bifocals in a striking blue shoved crookedly on her nose. They seemed too vibrant for the grief shadowing her deep-set eyes. There was something very familiar about her face—she was still attractive, the benefit of good bones—and yet Ethan knew he hadn’t met her before. It would be hard to forget someone like her. She was a tall, lanky woman, and her loose sweater and slightly askew wrinkled skirt hung from her spare frame. On her feet were green rubber boots—the type that had a permanent shelf at Canadian Tire—covered with splashes of paint. The colors were too vibrant and eclectic to be house paint. She was an artist, Ethan bet.
Lucy wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gazed at Ethan with an expression so bereft that he had to look away.
“Can I take them home now?” Penelope Barrett asked softly. “They’re exhausted.”
“Mrs. Barrett—” Mrs. Barrett.
No. It couldn’t be.
He felt as if he’d been punched.
He cursed his gut for denying him his coffee. He’d have picked this up right away if his brain weren’t so sluggish.
Her eyes narrowed. He was sending off signals to her that he needed to control. He forced his face to relax. “Mrs. Barrett,” he began again. “You are the children’s paternal grandmother?”
“That is correct.” The whole artsy getup she had going on could not disguise the steeliness in her eyes. This woman was no flake.
“What is your son’s name?”
Lucy stiffened. Ethan glanced at Nick. The teen hadn’t moved an inch, but Ethan sensed he was listening intently.
Penelope Barrett’s gaze was level. “Randall Barrett.”
Je-sus.
Ethan strove to keep his voice neutral. “Do you know his whereabouts this evening? We haven’t been able to locate him.”
Lucy threw a panicked glance at her grandmother, then at her brother. Had there been a flicker in Nick’s eyes?
Penelope Barrett straightened, keeping a comforting arm around her granddaughter. “I do not know where he is.”
Ethan’s gaze shifted to Lucy. “Do you know where your dad is, Lucy?”
She shook her head. “I kept calling him but he didn’t answer his cell phone.” Her lip trembled. “What if something happened to him, too?”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Lucy. But we need to track him down. He needs to know what’s happened.” She flinched. He turned to the young man slumped in the car. “How about you, Nick? Do you know where your father is?”
Nick stared at Ethan for a minute. “No,” he said finally.
“But you did see him earlier today?”
“Yes, he came by earlier.” Lucy jumped into the silence, her gaze earnest. The muscles around Nick’s eyes relaxed. His sister had spared him from answering.
Ethan turned to Lucy and Penelope. “I’d like to have a few minutes with Nick. Could you go wait by your car, please.”
“Is that okay, Nick?” Penelope asked.
Ethan’s mouth tightened. Most people would just do as they were asked, too traumatized by events to question authority. “Yeah.” Nick crossed his arms. His body language clearly signaled that Ethan could talk to him until he was blue in the face but he wasn’t getting anything from him.
Ethan slid next to Nick in the backseat of the patrol car. “Nick, I realize you’ve gone through a very traumatic experience.”
Nick’s breathing quickened.
“Tomorrow we’d like to spend some time finding out exactly what you witnessed. But for now, I’m just trying to track down your dad.”
Nick’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I told you. I don’t know where he is.”
“But you saw him earlier, right?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“After we arrived.”
Ethan knew that Randall Barrett and his ex had split in a very messy way several years ago. Yet, she’d brought their kids to Halifax to see him. Had they reconciled?
“Did your mum invite him over?” Ethan gave Nick an encouraging smile. “After all, they hadn’t seen each other for a while, right?”
“They’re divorced. My mother hates him.” Nick spat out the words. But the anger in his eyes extinguished as soon as he realized he’d spoken about his mother in the present tense.
“So why did you come to Halifax?”
“My sister wanted to visit my dad.”
“What about you?”
Nick’s lips pressed together. He wasn’t going to answer in words, but the look on his face spoke volumes. So Randall had alienated his son. Ethan wasn’t surprised. The guy was a prick.
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