Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

people must be planning to return,” said Arlo. “After the road gets cleared.”
    “Unless they change their minds,” said Elaine.
    “They left the house unlocked and all their windows open. They’ve got to come back.”
    “To
this?
No electricity, no neighbors around? What woman in her right mind would put up with it? And where
are
all the neigbors, anyway?”
    “This is a bad place,” said Grace softly. “I wouldn’t come back.”
    They all looked at her. The girl sat by herself, wrapped so tightly in a blanket that she looked like a mummy in the shadows. She had been silent, lost in whatever music was playing on her iPod, but now the ear buds were out and she sat hugging herself, looking around the room with wide eyes.
    “I looked in their closet,” said Grace. “The room where the mom and dad slept. Do you know he has sixteen belts? Sixteen leather belts, each one hanging on its own hook. And there’s rope there, too. Why would you keep rope in your closet?”
    Arlo gave a nervous chuckle. “No G-rated purpose I can think of.” Elaine gave him a light slap.
    “I don’t think he was a nice man.” Grace stared at the darkness lurking beyond the firelight. “Maybe his wife and kids escaped. Maybe they saw a chance and ran.” She paused. “If they were lucky. If he didn’t kill them first.”
    Maura shivered inside her wool blanket. Even the whiskey could not dispel the chill that had suddenly settled over the room.
    Arlo reached for the bottle. “Gee, if we’re going to tell scary stories, we’d better get some sedation on board.”
    “You already have enough on board,” said Elaine.
    “Who else has a scary story for the campfire?” Arlo looked at Maura. “With your job, you must have a ton of them.”
    Maura glanced at Grace, who had retreated into silence. If I’m spooked by the situation, she thought, how frightening must it be for a mere thirteen-year-old girl? “I don’t think this is the time to be telling any scary stories,” she said.
    “Well, how about funny stories then? Don’t pathologists have a reputation for morgue humor?”
    Maura knew he was merely hoping for entertainment to help pass the long and chilly night, but she was not in the mood to be amusing. “There’s nothing funny about what I do,” she said. “Trust me.”
    A long silence passed. Grace moved closer to the hearth and stared into the fire. “I wish we’d stayed at the hotel. I don’t like this place.”
    “Well, I’m with you, sweetie,” said Elaine. “This house gives me the creeps.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Doug said, as usual offering the sunny appraisal. “This is a good, solidly built house. It tells us what kind of people might live here.”
    Elaine gave a disparaging laugh. “People with really bad taste in furniture.”
    “Not to mention their taste in food,” said Arlo, pointing at the empty can of pork and beans.
    “You ate it fast enough.”
    “These are survival conditions, Elaine. One does what one must to stay alive.”
    “And did you see the clothes in the closets? Nothing but gingham and high collars. Pioneer dresses.”
    “Wait, wait. I’m getting a mental picture of these people.” Arlopressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes like a swami conjuring up visions. “I’m seeing …”
    “American Gothic!” Doug tossed out.
    “No, Beverly Hillbillies!” Elaine said.
    “Hey, Ma,” Arlo drawled, “pass me another helping of that there squirrel stew.”
    The trio of old friends burst out laughing, fueled by whiskey and the potent joys of ridiculing people whom they had never met. Maura did not join in.
    “And what do you see, Maura?” asked Elaine.
    “Come on,” prodded Arlo. “Play the game with us. Who do you think these people are?”
    Maura looked around the room at walls devoid of decorations except for that framed poster of the dark-haired man with the hypnotic eyes and the reverently upturned gaze. There were no curtains, no knickknacks. The only books were how-to manuals.
Diesel Engine Repair. Basic Plumbing. Home Veterinary Manual
. This was not a woman’s house; this was not a woman’s world.
    “He’s in total control here,” she said. “The husband.”
    The others watched, waiting for more.
    “Do you see how everything in this room is cold and practical? There’s no hint of the wife in this room. It’s as if she doesn’t exist, as if she’s invisible. A woman who doesn’t matter, who’s trapped and can’t find