Page 74 of Cold, Cold Bones
No one voiced the thought.
It didn’t need saying.
Cruikshank had been another one of my cases.
17
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY11
Awind teases branches high overhead. The sound is scratchy, like dry sticks rubbing together.
Forest surrounds me, black trees against a black background. I see no stars. No shadows. No hand raised up to test my eyes.
Though the darkness is impenetrable, I feel compelled to move forward.
A few steps, then I pause to listen. Save for the scraping branches, the silence is total.
I push on.
A strong gust whips my jacket and sends my hair flying. I am cold. So cold I can’t feel my fingers or toes.
Foreboding takes hold. I’m desperate to escape.
I pivot to retrace my steps. Can’t see my path.
I’m scared. Deep ice-in-my-belly afraid.
Frantic to find a way out of the woods.
As I alter my course again and again, sunrise begins to penetrate the gloom, softening the edges of the trees and lighting the gaps between them. The rosy crack expands upward along a fuzzy horizon,illuminating something on the ground to my left. Despite my fear, I veer toward it.
Five steps. Ten. The distance seems endless.
I must know what the object is. I try to hurry, but my feet won’t respond. I feel as though I’m slogging through tar.
Then I am there.
It’s a human form. Slowly, like a heavy velvet curtain rising to reveal a dark stage, the spreading dawn illuminates the body. The boots. The camos. The UVA sweatshirt.
The blond hair. The face.
It’s Katy. Her eyes are closed, and her skin is a deathly translucent blue.
Dread sucks my breath.
I drop to my knees and place my fingers on her throat. They tremble.
I detect no pulse.
Terrified, I scream my daughter’s name. No sound emerges from my mouth.
I watch Katy’s features change shape. Her face swirls like an Edvard Munch painting. Soft creases form at the corners of her eyes and lips.
I feel confusion.
Relief.
Horror.
