Ice Cold Killer. Cindi Myers
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She closed the hatch of the car. “I have to go,” she said.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”
“No. Thank you.” She took out her keys and clutched them, automatically lacing them through her fingers to use as a weapon, the way the self-defense instructor in Fort Collins had shown her.
His expression clouded. “If it was someone else, you’d accept help, wouldn’t you?” he said. “Because it’s me, you’re refusing. Just because we have a romantic history, doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them to find him glaring at her. Were they ever going to stop having this conversation? They had only gone out together three times. To her, that didn’t constitute a romantic history, though he insisted on seeing things differently. “Ken, I don’t want to talk about this now,” she said. “I’m tired and I’m upset and I just want to go home.”
“I’m here for you, Darcy,” he said.
“I know.” She got into the driver’s seat, forcing herself not to hurry, and drove away. When she glanced in the rearview mirror, Ken was still standing in the drive, frowning after her, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Dating him had been a bad idea—Darcy had known it from the first date—but Kelly had pressured her to give him a chance. “He’s a nice man,” she had said. “And the two of you have a lot in common.”
They did have a lot in common—a shared love of books and animals and hiking. But Ken pushed too hard. He wanted too much. After only two dates, he had asked her to move in with him. He had talked about them taking a vacation together next summer, and had wanted her to come home to Wisconsin to meet his parents for Christmas. She had broken off with him then, telling him she wasn’t ready to get serious with anyone. He had pretended not to understand, telling her coming home to meet his family was just friendly, not serious. But she couldn’t see things that way.
He had been upset at first—angry even. He called her some horrible names and told her she would regret losing a guy like him. But after he had returned from visiting his folks last week, he had been more cordial. They had exchanged greetings when she stopped by to see Kelly, and the three of them spent a couple of hours one afternoon shoveling the driveway together. Darcy had been willing to be friends with him, as long as he didn’t want more.
She turned onto the gravel county road that led to the horse ranch that belonged to one of their first clients. Robbie Lusk had built the tiny house on wheels parked by the creek as an experiment, he said, and was happy to rent it out to Darcy. His hope was to add more tiny homes and form a little community, and he had a second home under construction.
Darcy slowed to pull into her drive, her cozy home visible beneath the golden glow of the security light one hundred yards ahead. But she was startled to see a dark SUV moving down the drive toward her. Heart in her throat, she braked hard, eliciting complaints from the cats in their carriers behind her. The SUV barreled out past her, a rooster tail of wet snow in its wake. It turned sharply, scarcely inches from her front bumper, and she tried to see the driver, but could make out nothing in the darkness and swirling snow.
She stared at the taillights of the SUV in her rearview mirror as it raced back toward town. Then, hands shaking, she pulled out her phone and found the card Ryder had given her. She punched in his number and waited for it to ring. “Ryder Stewart,” he answered.
“This is Darcy Marsh. Can you come out to my house? A strange car was here and just left. I didn’t recognize it and I... I’m afraid.” Her knuckles ached from gripping the phone so hard, and her throat hurt from admitting her fear.
“Stay in your car. I’ll be right there,” Ryder said, his voice strong and commanding, and very reassuring.
Ryder met no other cars on the trip to Darcy’s house. Following the directions she had given him, he turned into a gravel drive and spotted her Subaru Forester parked in front of a redwood-sided dwelling about the size of a train caboose. She got out of the car when he parked his Tahoe beside her, a slight figure in black boots and a knee-length, black puffy coat, her dark hair uncovered. “I haven’t looked around to see if anything was messed with,” she said. “I thought I should wait for you.”
“Good idea.” He took his flashlight from his belt and played it over the ground around the house. It didn’t look disturbed, but it was snowing hard enough the flakes might have covered any tracks. “Let me know if you spot anything out of place,” he said.
She nodded and, keys in hand, moved to the front door. “I know most people around here don’t lock their doors,” she said. “But I’m enough of a city girl, I guess, that it’s a habit I can’t break.” She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, reaching in to flick on the lights, inside and out.
Ryder followed her inside, in time to see two cats descending the circular stairs from the loft, the smaller, black one bounding down, the larger silver tabby moving at a more leisurely pace. “Hello, guys.” Darcy shrugged off her shoulder bag and bent to greet the cats. “The black one is Marianne. Her older sister is Elinor.” She glanced up at him through surprisingly long lashes. “The Dashwood sisters. From Sense and Sensibility.”
He nodded. “I take it you’re a fan of Jane Austen?”
“Yes. Have you read the book?”
“No.” He couldn’t help feeling he had failed some kind of test as she moved away from him, though she couldn’t go far. He could see the entire dwelling, except for the loft and the part of the bathroom not visible through the open door at the end, from this spot by the door—a small sitting area, galley kitchen and table for two. The space was organized, compact and a little claustrophobic. It was a dwelling designed for one person—and two cats.
Make that four cats. “I stopped by Kelly’s place and picked up her two cats,” she said. “Will you help me bring them in?”
He followed her back to her car and accepted one of the cat carriers. The cat inside, a large gold tabby, eyed him balefully and began to yowl. “Oh, Pumpkin, don’t be such a crybaby,” Darcy chided as she led the way back up the walk. Inside they set the carriers side by side on the sofa that butted up against the table on one side of the little house. “I’ll open the carrier doors and they’ll come out when they’re ready,” she said. “They’ve stayed here before.”
“I’ll go outside and take a look around,” he said, leaving her to deal with the cats.
A closer inspection showed tire tracks in the soft snow to one side of the gravel drive, and fast-filling-in shoe prints leading around one end of the house to a large back window. He shone the light around the frame, over fresh tool marks, as if someone had tried to jimmy it open. Holding the light in one hand, he took several photos with his phone, then went back inside.
“I put on water for tea,” Darcy said, indicating the teakettle on the three-burner stove. “I always feel better with a cup of tea.” She rubbed her hands up and down her shoulders. She was still wearing her black puffy coat.
Ryder took out his notebook. “What can you remember about the vehicle you saw?” he asked.
“It was a dark color—dark gray or black, and an SUV, or maybe a small truck with a camper cover? A Toyota, I think.” She shook her head. “I’m not a person who pays much attention to cars. It was probably someone who was lost, turning around. I shouldn’t have called you.”
Ryder thought of the 4Runner that had cruised past him in the grocery store parking lot. “There are fresh footprints leading around the side of the house, and marks on your back window, where someone might have tried to get in.”