Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

suddenly frowned at the hearth, which was still littered with old ashes. The fire was burning cleanly, the flames leaping up like jagged teeth. “We didn’t open the flue,” she said.
    “It seems to be burning okay,” said Doug. “There’s no smoke.”
    “That’s my point.” Maura crouched down and looked up at the chimney. “The flue was already open. That’s weird.”
    “Why?”
    “When you close down your house for the winter, wouldn’t you normally clean up the old ashes and close the flue?” She paused. “Wouldn’t you lock your door?”
    They were silent for a moment as the fire burned, consuming wood that hissed and popped. Maura saw the others glance nervously around at the shadows and knew that the same thought must be going through their heads.
Did the occupants ever leave?
    Doug rose to his feet and picked up the oil lamp. “I think I’ll check out the rest of the house.”
    “I’m coming with you, Daddy,” said Grace.
    “Me, too,” said Elaine.
    Now they were all on their feet. No one wanted to be left behind.
    Doug led the way down a hallway, and the oil lamp cast moving shadows on the walls. They entered a kitchen with pine floors and cabinets and a wood-burning cookstove. Over the soapstone sink was a hand pump for drawing well water. But what drew everyone’s attention was the dining table.
    On that table were four plates, four forks, and four glasses of frozen milk. Food had congealed on the plates—something dark and lumpy alongside concrete mounds of mashed potatoes, all of it coated in a fine layer of frost.
    Arlo poked a fork at one of the dark lumps. “Looks like meatballs. So which plate do you suppose was Baby Bear’s?”
    No one laughed.
    “They just left their dinner here,” said Elaine. “They pouredmilk, set food on the table. And then …” Her voice faded and she looked at Doug.
    In the gloom, the oil lamp suddenly flickered as a draft swept the kitchen. Doug crossed to the window, which had been left open, and slid it shut. “This is weird, too,” he said, frowning down at a layer of snow that had accumulated in the sink. “Who leaves their windows open when it’s freezing outside?”
    “Hey, look. There’s food in here!” Arlo had opened the pantry cabinet to reveal shelves stocked with supplies. “There’s flour. Dried beans. And enough canned corn, peaches, and pickles to last us till Doomsday.”
    “Leave it to Arlo to find dinner,” said Elaine.
    “Just call me the ultimate hunter-gatherer. At least we’re not going to starve.”
    “As if you’d ever let that happen.”
    “And if we light that woodstove,” said Maura, “it will heat up the place faster.”
    Doug looked up toward the second floor. “Assuming they didn’t leave any other windows open. We should check the rest of the house.”
    Again, no one wanted to be left behind. Doug poked his head into the empty garage, then moved to the foot of the staircase. He lifted his oil lamp, but the light revealed only shadowy steps rising into blackness. They started up, Maura in the rear, where it was darkest. In horror films, it was always the rear guard who got picked off first, the hapless character at the end of the column who caught the arrow in the back, the first blow of the ax. She glanced over her shoulder, but all she saw behind her was a well of shadows.
    The first room Doug stopped at was a bedroom. They all crowded through the doorway and found a large sleigh bed neatly made up. At the foot was a pine hope chest over which a pair of blue jeans had been draped. A man’s size thirty-six with a worn leather belt. Across the floor was a dusting of snow, blown in through yet another open window. Doug closed it.
    Maura went to the dresser and picked up a photo with a simple tin frame. Four faces gazed back: a man and a woman, flanking two young girls of about nine or ten, their blond hair neatly bound into braids. The man had slicked-back hair and an unyielding gaze that seemed to dare anyone to challenge his authority. The woman was plain and pale, her blond hair braided, her features so colorless she seemed to recede into the background. Maura pictured that woman working in the kitchen, wisps of white-blond hair escaping her braid and feathering her face. Imagined her setting down plates and forks and dishing out food. Mounds of mashed potatoes, helpings of meat and gravy.
    And then what had happened? What would make a family abandon their meal and leave it to harden to