Erica Spindler: Bone Cold

Anna muttered an oath and flipped off the water. She snatched the hand towel from the ring and dried her face. Kurt wasn’t going to come looking for her. Twenty-three years had passed, for heaven’s sake. The FBI had been certain the man she’d known as Kurt posed no further threat to her. They believed he had slipped over the border into Mexico. The discovery of Monica’s body in the border town of Baja, California, six days after Harlow’s escape had supported that belief.

Disgusted with herself, she tossed the hand towel onto the counter. When was she going to get over this? How many years had to pass before she could sleep without a light on? Before nightmares no longer awakened her, night after night?

If only Kurt had been apprehended. She would be able to forget then. She would be able to go on without worrying, without wondering if he thought of her. Her escape had upset the ransom pickup. Did he curse her for spoiling that? Did he wait for the day he would make her pay for spoiling his opportunity at wealth?

She looked at herself in the mirror, expression fierce. She couldn’t control her nightmares, but she could control everything else in her life. She would not spend her days—or nights—dodging shadows.

Anna stalked back to her bedroom, grabbed a pair of shorts from her bureau drawer and slipped them on under her nightshirt. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work. A new story idea had been kicking around the back of her brain and now seemed as good a time as any to start it. But first, she decided, coffee.

She made her way to the kitchen, passing her office—a desk tucked into a corner of the living room—as she did. She flipped on the computer then moved on, past the front door. Out of habit she stopped to check the dead bolt.

As her fingers closed over the lock, someone pounded on the door. With a small cry, Anna jumped back.

“Anna! It’s Bill—”

“And Dalton.”

“Are you all right?”

Bill Friends and Dalton Ramsey, her neighbors and best friends. Thank goodness.

Hands shaking, she unlocked the door and eased it open. The pair stood in the hallway, expressions anxious. From down the hall she heard the yipping of Judy and Boo, the couple’s Heinz 57 mini-mutts. “What in the world…you scared the life out of me.”

“We heard you screa—”

“I heard you scream,” Bill corrected. “I was on my way back in from—”

“He came and got me.” Dalton held up a marble bookend, a miniature of Michelangelo’s David . “I brought this. Just in case.”

Anna brought a hand to her chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could picture fifty-something, mild-mannered Dalton winging a chunk of marble at an intruder. “Just in case of what? That my library needed tidying?”

Bill chuckled; Dalton looked irritated. He sniffed. “For protection, of course.”

Against the intruder who would have made his escape by the time her friends had gathered their wits about them, selected a weapon and made their way to her door. Thank goodness she had never actually needed saving.

She bit back a laugh. “And I appreciate your concern.” She swung the door wider. “Come on in, I’ll make coffee to go with the beignets.”

“Beignets?” Dalton repeated innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anna wagged a finger at him. “Nice try, but I smell them. Your punishment for coming to my aid is having to share.”

New Orleans’s version of a doughnut, beignets were fried squares of dough, liberally dusted with powdered sugar. Like everything New Orleans, they were both decadent and addictive.

And definitely not for those, like Dalton, who professed to be watching their weight.

“He made me do it,” Dalton said as they stepped into the apartment. He looked accusingly at Bill. “You know I’d never suggest such indulgences at two in the morning.”

“Right.” Bill rolled his eyes. “And whose figure suggests a tendency toward…indulgences?”

The other man looked at Anna for support. Bill was ten years Dalton’s junior, trim and athletic. “It’s not fair. He eats everything and never gains weight. Me, I eat one little thing and—”

“One little thing? Hah! Ask him about the Fig Newtons and barbeque chips?”

“I was having a bad day. I needed a little pick-me-up. So sue me.”

Anna linked her arms through her friends’ and nudged them toward the kitchen, the adverse effects of her nightmare melting away. The two men never failed to make her laugh. Nor did it ever cease to amaze her that they were a couple. They reminded her of a peacock and a penguin. Bill was outspoken and often outrageous, Dalton a prim businessman whose meticulous manner tended toward fussiness. Yet as different as they were, they had been together for ten years.

“I don’t care who’s guilty of the idea,” she said as they reached the kitchen. “I’m just grateful for it. A 2:00 a.m. beignet-binge is just what I needed.”

Truth was, it was their friendship she was grateful for. She’d met the pair her second week in New Orleans. She had answered an ad for a job at a French Quarter florist shop. Although she hadn’t had any experience, she’d always had a flair for arranging and had been in need of a job that would allow her the time—and energy—to pursue her dream of being a novelist.

Dalton had turned out to be the owner of the shop; they had hit it off immediately. He had understood her dreams and applauded her for having the guts to pursue them. And unlike the other potential employers she had interviewed with, he had been comfortable with her need to think of her position at The Perfect Rose as a job, not a career.

Dalton had introduced her to Bill and the two men had taken her under their wing. They’d alerted her to an upcoming vacancy in the French Quarter apartment building they not only lived in, but that Dalton owned, and had given her recommendations for everything from dry cleaners to restaurants and hairstylists. As Anna had come to know them better, she had allowed them to take a real interest in her writing: it had been Bill and Dalton who had cheered her up after every rejection and Bill and Dalton who had cheered her on with each success.

She loved them both and would face the devil himself to keep them safe. They, she believed, would do the same for her.

The devil himself. Kurt.

As if reading her mind, Dalton turned to her, aghast. “Good Lord, Anna. We never even asked, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Anna poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove to heat. She retrieved three mugs from a cabinet and a tray of frozen coffee cubes from the freezer. “It was just a bad dream.”

Bill helped her out, dropping a cube of the frozen cold-brewed coffee concentrate into each mug. “Not another one?” He gave her a quick hug. “Poor Anna.”

“It’s those sick stories you write,” Dalton offered, artfully arranging the beignets on a plate. “They’re giving you nightmares.”

“Sick stories? Thanks, Dalton.”

“Dark, then,” Dalton amended. “Twisted. Scary. Better?”

“Much, thank you.” She poured the steaming milk into the mugs, then handed each man his café au lait.

They carried the pastries and coffee to her small, bistro-style table, sat and dug in. Dalton was right. Her novels—thrillers—had been described by reviewers with just such adjectives. Also by ones like compelling and gripping. If only she could sell enough copies to make a living writing them.

Nobody was holding her back but herself. That’s what her agent said.

“Such a nice, normal-seeming lady.” Bill lowered his voice to a horror-flick drawl. “Where do her stories come from? Experience? Extracurricular activities? What gothic horrors lurk behind her guileless green eyes?”