Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

this place alive.”
    I T TOOK HER an hour to fill a backpack. She stuffed it with food and extra socks and gloves and a sweater. From the garage, she was able to scavenge a tarp and sleeping bag, items she hoped she wouldn’t need. With any luck, she could be down the mountain by nightfall. Her cell phone battery had drained to nothing, so she left it in Elaine’s care, along with her purse, and packed only cash and ID. On a thirty-mile journey, there was no room for even one unnecessary ounce.
    Even so, the pack weighed heavily on her shoulders as she started up the valley road. Every step took her past reminders of their earlier ill-fated attempt to leave. Here were the rutted tracks left by the Jeep as it had struggled to climb through the snow. Here were the footprints they’d left after they’d abandoned the stranded vehicle and walked back down, dragging Arlo on the sled. Another hundred yards, another few hairpin turns, and she began spotting Arlo’s blood on the snow, tracked down the road on their boots. Another turn of the road, and there was the stranded Jeep with the broken tire chain. And more blood.
    She paused to catch her breath and stared down at the churned snow, stained in different shades of red and pink, like the icy confections you slurped up on a hot summer’s day. It brought back the screams and the panic, and her heart pounded as much from that terrible memory as it did from her trudge up the hill.
    She left the Jeep behind and kept walking. Here the snow was broken only by Doug’s footprints. Over the past three days, they had partially melted in the sun, and had hardened into icy crusts. She continued her climb, unsettled by the thought that she was following in Doug’s footsteps, that every step she took he, too, had taken two mornings ago. How far down the mountain would she be able to follow this trail? Would there be a point when it suddenly stopped, when she would discover what had become of him?
    Am I bound for the same fate?
    The road grew steeper, and she was sweating in her heavy clothes. She unzipped the jacket, pulled off her gloves and hat. This climb would be the most strenuous part of her journey. Once she reached the main road, it would be a mostly downhill glide on skis. That, at least, was the theory. Yet Doug had failed to complete it. Now she was beginning to wonder if she was being reckless, attempting a feat that Doug, so fit and athletic, had been unable to complete.
    She could still change her mind. She could turn around and head back to the house, where they had enough food to last them until spring. She reached a viewpoint from which she could see the settlement far below, where smoke was curling from the chimney of their house. She was not even at the main road yet, and already she was exhausted, her legs aching and wobbly. Had Doug felt as weary when he’d reached this point in the climb? Had he paused at this very spot, looked down at the valley, and debated the wisdom of continuing?
    She knew what he chose; his footprints left the record of his decision. They continued up the road.
    So, too, did she. This is for Arlo, she thought. His name became her silent chant as she walked.
Save Arlo. Save Arlo
.
    Pine trees soon blocked her view, and the valley disappeared behind her. The backpack seemed to grow heavier with every step, and she considered dumping some of the contents. Did she really needthose three tins of sardines? Wouldn’t the half jar of peanut butter provide enough energy to get her down the mountain? She debated the issue as she huffed up the road, the cans clanking in her pack. It was a bad sign that she was already considering such a move, less than two hours into her journey.
    The road leveled out and she spotted the sign ahead, marking the viewpoint where they had caught their very first glimpse of Kingdom Come five days ago. The valley was so far below her now that the settlement looked like a toy landscape, decorated with artificial forests and flocked with fake snow. But the chimney smoke was real, and so were the people in that house, and one of them was dying.
    She turned to continue the trek, took two steps, and came to a sudden halt. Staring down at the snow, she saw Doug’s footprints marking the route ahead of her.
    Another set of prints trailed behind his. Snowshoes.
    She knew they’d been left after Doug came this way, because they overlaid the impression of his boots. But how soon after? Hours later, a day later? Or had