Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [160]
Currently, a weatherman was standing in front of a screen showing parts of Montana, Idaho, and Canada. With a sweeping movement of his arm, he explained how arctic air was blasting down from Saskatchewan and Alberta to dump somewhere between eighteen inches and three feet of snow in the next forty-eight hours. “Looks like we’ll be getting that white Christmas a few weeks early,” he said happily, then cut to a reporter standing near the interstate, shivering and reporting on the freezing weather conditions as semis rolled down the highway behind her.
A second later the television screen changed, and the image of Elle Alexander was visible. “The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Office is asking for your help in locating the vehicle that may have pushed a local Dodge minivan off the road and into the Grizzly River,” an anchor said as the screen switched to that section of road, right before the North Fork Bridge, where in the snow, flowers and candles had been left to mark the spot where Elle Alexander had lost her life. Minutes later the news was reporting on the death of a “lone cross-country skier,” whose name hadn’t yet been released pending notification of next of kin.
She drew a breath, then hit the mute button, hearing the storm outside really start to rage, the wind shrieking, a branch beating against the house. A glance at the clock told her Trace had been gone nearly half an hour. He should be back soon, she figured.
After walking into the kitchen, she stared through the window and told herself to relax. Her gaze followed the path broken in the snow as it led to the outbuildings.
There was another path as well, smaller, going around the side of the house and almost obscured by the new snow.
Odd.
But then Tilly and Ed had been here with Eli and Sarge. Perhaps one of them had taken Sarge outside . . . ? Tilly, probably, since the path was thin and she couldn’t imagine Ed’s size twelves tamping down the snow like that.
Except, of course, the new-fallen snow changed the footprints, softened them, and made them appear smaller.
Huh.
She told herself not to worry, not to let the recent accidents, her own house being compromised, or her supposed poisoning get the better of her. She was safe. Here. With Trace.
And yet the feeling that something wasn’t right here hung with her. “Just a new place,” she whispered, wishing one of the dogs had stayed in the house with Eli and her. With one last look at the fast-disappearing path, she returned to the living room, where the crackling fire dispelled some of her unease. Curling up on the couch again, she opened up her laptop and did a little more research on Gerald Johnson, his company, and his family.
Your family.
“Never,” she said aloud as the lights flickered once and a branch began beating against the side of the house like it was trying to get inside.
Again, she glanced at the back door, wishing Trace would return. Other noises assailed her: timbers creaking, the common sounds of an old house settling, the squeak and soughing of tree limbs rubbing against each other. Telling herself she was letting her nerves get the better of her, she fought a ridiculous panic attack and turned her attention away from the dark night beyond. She Googled everyone in the Johnson family and remembered her own impressions of Gerald and his children.
Her father was an enigma. Strong. Smart. Educated. Hard-edged. A man who solved problems and faced adversity.
Ruthless?
Probably.
As for his firstborn, Clarissa, she was a little more transparent, or at least it seemed so on first look. Bold and arrogant, abrasive and downright bitchy, she was married to the Thor-like Lance. Two peas in a pod. Kacey wondered if either one of them had an inkling about a sense of humor. And yet they had children. Kacey had trouble imagining