Cold Conspiracy. Cindi Myers

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      Which was fine. She didn’t need a man to make her complete.

      She didn’t need Nate Hall. When his plans changed and he decided to go away for college, he had shed her as easily as if he had been getting rid of last year’s winter coat or a pair of shoes he’d outgrown.

      He had told her he loved her, but when you loved someone, you didn’t treat them like you were doing them a favor when you said goodbye.

      “I’m hungry. We missed lunch.”

      Jamie guessed Donna wasn’t too traumatized, if she was thinking about food. “I’ll make you a sandwich before I drop you off at Mrs. Simmons’s,” she said. “I think there’s still some tuna in the refrigerator. Would you like that?”

      “I don’t want to go to Mrs. Simmons’s house,” Donna said. “I want to stay home.”

      “I have to work this afternoon,” Jamie said. “And I may be late. You can’t stay in the house by yourself.”

      “Why not?” Donna asked. “I know how to dial 911 if something bad happens.”

      Jamie tightened her hands on the steering wheel until her knuckles ached. “It’s not safe for you to stay by yourself,” she said. Even if Donna’s mental capacity had matched her physical age, Jamie wouldn’t have wanted to leave her alone. Not with a killer preying on women in Eagle Mountain.

      “I’m old enough to stay home by myself,” Donna said.

      “Mrs. Simmons’s feelings will be hurt if you don’t stay with her,” Jamie said. For sure, their older neighbor would miss the money Jamie paid her to watch over Donna while Jamie worked.

      “You could explain it to her.” But Donna sounded doubtful. She was very sensitive to other people’s feelings—perhaps because her own had been wounded so often by unthinking remarks.

      “If you don’t go see her, you’ll miss your shows,” Jamie said. Every afternoon, Mrs. Simmons and Donna watched old sitcoms and dramas on a classic TV station. Since Jamie didn’t subscribe to the expensive cable package required for such programming, Mrs. Simmons was Donna’s only source for her beloved shows.

      Donna sighed—a long, dramatic sigh that would have done any teen girl proud. “I guess I had better go, then.”

      “Thank you.” Jamie leaned over and squeezed her sister’s arm. “I really appreciate you being so nice about it.”

      “What time will you be home?” Donna asked.

      “I don’t know. I have this meeting, but if the sheriff wants me to work after that, I will.” She sat up straighter, her next words as much a pep talk for herself as for her sister. “The work I do is important. I’m helping to keep people safe.” Though she and her fellow deputies hadn’t been able to keep Michaela Underwood and the Ice Cold Killer’s other victims safe. The knowledge hurt, and it goaded her to do more. To do better.

      “Will you see Nate at the meeting?” Donna asked.

      Jamie frowned. “Nate is a wildlife officer—he doesn’t work for the sheriff’s department.”

      “He’s nice,” Donna said. “And cute.”

      “You think every man you see is cute,” Jamie teased.

      “I don’t think Mr. McAdams is cute.” Donna made a face. Mr. McAdams was the meat market manager at Eagle Mountain Grocery. Jamie had to admit he bore a startling resemblance to the photo of last year’s Grand Champion steer that graced the door to the meat freezer at the grocery.

      “Is Henry cute?” Jamie asked.

      Donna grinned. “Oh, yeah. Henry is cuuuute!” She dissolved into giggles, and Jamie couldn’t help giggling, too. She could never feel gloomy for long when she was with Donna. Her sister had a real gift for bringing joy into the lives of everyone she knew.

      They reached home and the dogs piled out of the SUV and raced into the house, then out into the backyard, through the dog door Jamie’s father had installed years before. Three laps around the yard, noses to the ground, then they were back inside, lined up in formation in front of the treat cabinet. “Treat!” Donna proclaimed and took out the bag that held the beloved bacon snacks. She carefully doled out one to each dog, pronouncing “Good dog!” as each treat was devoured.

      The next hour passed in a blur of lunch, changing clothes and hustling Donna two houses down to Mrs. Simmons, who met them at the door, a worried expression on her face. “There’s some cookies for you on the table,” Mrs. Simmons said to Donna. “You go get them while I talk to Jamie.”

      When Donna had left them, Mrs. Simmons said, keeping her voice low. “I heard they found another woman’s body.”

      “Yes.” There was no sense denying it. Half the town listened to the emergency scanner, the way some people listened to music on the radio. “I don’t know anything to tell you,” she added quickly, before Mrs. Simmons could press her for more information.

      “I never thought I’d see the day when I didn’t feel safe around here,” Mrs. Simmons said.

      Jamie wanted to reassure the woman that she would be fine—that there was nothing to worry about. But with six women dead and the department no closer to finding the killer, the words would be empty and meaningless. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m not sure how late I’ll be. If it will be later than nine, I’ll call you.”

      “Don’t worry about us,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Donna is welcome to spend the night if she needs to. She’s good company.”

      Ten minutes later, Jamie parked her SUV in the lot behind the sheriff’s department. She stowed her purse in her locker and made her way down the hall to the conference room. Dwight and Travis’s brother, Deputy Gage Walker, were already there, along with Ryder Stewart from Colorado State Patrol, and US Marshal Cody Rankin, his arm in a sling.

      “How’s the arm?” Jamie asked as she took a seat at the table across from Cody.

      “The arm’s fine. The shoulder hurts where they took the bullet out, but I’ll live.” He had been shot by an ex-con who had been pursuing him and the woman who was catering Travis’s upcoming wedding. “I’m not officially on duty,” Cody added. “But Travis asked me to sit in and contribute what I could.”

      The sheriff entered and everyone moved to seats around the table. Though newspaper reports almost always included at least one reference to the sheriff’s “boyish good looks,” today he looked much older, like a combat veteran who has seen too many battles. He walked to the bulletin board in the center of the wall facing the conference table and pinned up an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a smiling, dark-haired woman. The image joined five others of similarly smiling, pretty females. The victims of the Ice Cold Killer.

      “Her name is Michaela Underwood,” Travis said. “Twenty-two years old, she moved to Eagle Mountain to live near her parents. She recently started a new job at the bank.” He turned to face them. “These killings have got to stop,” he said. “And they have to stop now.”

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