Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Kicking her shoes off at the base of the stairs, she hurried up the five steps to the landing, then turned and climbed the rest of the flight to the second story, where an old railing with heavy newel posts prevented anyone from falling down the staircase.

Eli’s room was tucked under the eaves on one side of the hall, along with a spare room, used, it seemed, for storage. The door to the third bedroom hung ajar, and she pushed it open a little farther, the light from the hallway spilling onto unused furniture, plastic tubs, and stacked boxes.

The bath was located at the end of the hall; the largest bedroom next to it. She looked inside, saw a neatly made massive bed and a small dresser with a flat screen mounted over it. Trace’s room, obviously.

Across the hall, wedged between the bathroom and the room used for storage, a door was open slightly, and she deduced from the trail of toys leading through it that this was Eli’s area of the house. Pushing the door open farther, allowing more light inside, she spied Trace’s son tangled in the rumpled covers, facedown in his pillow. He was breathing loudly, his arm with its cast flung to one side. She stepped closer, careful not to crush toys on the floor, but a floorboard creaked. Eli moaned softly, then rolled onto his back. Blinking, he looked up and his little face twisted in confusion.

“Mommy?” he asked in a sleep-shrouded voice.

Kacey’s throat constricted. “No.” She sat on the edge of his bed and touched the fingers sticking out of his cast. “No, honey, it’s Kacey. Dr. Lambert. You remember me.”

He was still eyeing her, and even in the semidarkness she saw the hope on his face fade.

As the storm raged outside, her heart cracked for the boy, but she forced a smile and pushed the hair off his forehead.

He glanced at the closet, which was dark, its door closed tight, then to the window, as if he were trying to get his bearings. “But—”

“It’s okay,” she said when she recognized his disappointment. He swallowed hard and bit his lower lip to keep from shedding tears.

Her own eyes burned. “So. . how’re you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“You want anything?” Other than your mother.

“Nah.” He shook his head and flopped back onto the pillow.

“Okay. Then go back to sleep and I’ll check on you later. Okay?”

He was too tired to argue, it seemed. Closing his eyes, he burrowed deeper under the covers, and though his forehead was creased with confusion for a second or two, soon he was breathing deeply again, probably dreaming about having a mom nearby. As she observed Eli for a few seconds, Kacey mentally swore that if she were ever to run into Leanna, she’d wring her neck.

Stop it! She could be dead, for all you know.

That could explain why Trace hasn’t heard from her, why she seems to have completely deserted her son.

Give the woman a break. Leanna could be the victim of an accident, like the others. There is a chance her body just hasn’t been discovered.

A cold chill slithered through her body, but even so, she was angry with a woman who could abandon her child.

Satisfied that Eli was sleeping soundly, Kacey walked back to the hallway and down the stairs, where the scents of Tilly’s killer chicken were wafting from the lower level.

Her stomach had the bad manners to growl loudly as she entered the kitchen.

Trace, gingerly lifting a bowl from the microwave, looked over his shoulder. “How was he?”

“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 jacket 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.