Cold Death by Mary Stone (best e reader for android TXT) 📕

scar as I walked over to the refrigerator. The chain clinked to the floor when I released the lock, and I swung the door open to reveal Bethany.

She was huddled so close to the front, knees drawn to her chest and shivering, that she tumbled onto the kitchen floor, reeking of vomit.

Over the course of the night, I’d opened the door for brief periods on a schedule to ensure she didn’t perish from lack of oxygen, sacrificing my own sleep for the sake of her safety. The ungrateful brat had greeted my kindness with kicks and tears and pleas.

This time was different. While she hacked and filled her lungs with noisy slurps of air as usual, she didn’t bother to cry or fight.

Satisfaction warmed my bones. Progress. Good. Katarina’s offspring needed to learn that her sweet, fragile life was nestled like an eggshell in my hands, every bit as easy to crush as it was to nurture.

“Good girl, you’re learning. Now, if you can promise to stay calm and quiet and get yourself over to the table, I’ll reward you by letting you finish the leftovers on my plate.”

Her dazed, hungry eyes drifted a little before focusing on the food. A third of a fried egg, a few bites of ham, and half a crust of toast. That was all I’d left her, but she licked her chapped lips like the crumbs were an elaborate buffet.

On quivering legs, she stumbled for the table. When she got close enough to reach, she hooked her hands over the back of the chair for extra support. Painfully slow, she eased her weak body onto the chair, almost slipping off the side but righting herself at the last second.

Before I’d even finished setting the plate in front of her, those black and purple swollen fingers reached for the food.

My slap rang out, sharp against those bruised knuckles in the quiet room. “Eat like a human, not an animal. Use the fork.”

Pride stirred when she swallowed her cry because the blow on that damaged skin had to hurt. The fork shook in her hand, but that sweet forehead wrinkled with concentration, and she managed to spear a bit of egg and lift the bite to her mouth.

I allowed myself another moment to relish the picture she made before heading to the freezer and withdrawing a Hot Pocket. The microwave hummed as the frozen meal heated and infused the area with a delicious cheesy aroma.

Behind me, Bethany released a small, animal-like whimper, and I smiled.

When the timer dinged, I transferred the Hot Pocket to a fresh plate and carried it to the table. Round with longing, Bethany’s eyes followed my every move, not realizing that her swollen hand gripped the fork like a weapon.

I slid the plate before her, and she went still, her gaze glued to the crispy sandwich. She looked like a fox too terrified of a trap to lunge for the piece of meat poking out from shiny steel, but too hungry to flee, either.

“Good girl for waiting for permission, but go ahead now. Eat. I need you strong for what’s coming next.”

19

The digital clock on the Explorer’s dashboard read 11:03 when Ellie’s bodyguard pulled up to the entrance of the Lake Walters Retirement Community.

From the passenger seat, Ellie arched her back and stretched. Finally. Their four-hour drive had turned into six. Half an hour into the trip, they’d hit road construction that funneled the highway down to a one-lane crawl, followed by stop-and-go traffic around the four-hour mark, thanks to an RV engine fire.

Shane rolled the SUV to a stop beside the guard kiosk. Giant palm trees flanked the street on both sides, rising beyond the wrought iron gates at regular intervals like green-haired giants. Interspersed between them were terracotta roofs that gleamed orange-red in the Florida sun while the lush, manicured grounds and large homes beyond the gate oozed with wealth.

Ellie powered off the stereo, cutting off Hank Crawford mid-word. Her expectations for the true-crime podcast hadn’t been very high, so she’d been pleasantly surprised when the episodes turned out to be both in-depth and insightful. Impressive, especially for a guy whose psychology background consisted of his own past traumatic experiences and a few books.

Crawford had sketched a clear, fact-based portrait of Letitia Wiggins, along with his conclusions as to what made her tick, and Ellie recognized many of the former headmaster’s wife’s traits in some of the women she’d grown up around. The attributes he described were common in the elite and privileged, especially women who derived a sense of power by focusing outward to control others rather than working on their own self-control.

Shane rolled the window down as the security guard stepped out of the kiosk, approaching their vehicle with a polite smile and a tablet in one hand. He was much fitter than the daytime security detail Ellie was accustomed to staffing residential communities in Charleston, with broad shoulders, muscled arms, and a military bearing to match his buzz cut. A 9mm hung in plain view from his right hip.

“Morning, folks. Can I get the name of the guest you’re visiting today?”

Ellie leaned across the center console and smiled. “Good morning. We’re visiting Letitia Wiggins.”

The guard nodded as he finger-scrolled along the tablet’s screen. “And your name is?”

Ellie flipped the sun visor down to grab her badge. “Detective Kline.”

The guard stopped scrolling and lifted his gaze from the tablet. “Detective Kline. Can you move that badge a little closer for me, please?”

She passed the shield to Shane, who held it outside the window. The guard leaned over, using a hand on his forehead to shield the sun, squinting at the badge before straightening back up. “I see you’re from Charleston, Detective Kline. What business brings you out so far this way to visit our resident?”

As soon as he asked, Ellie bit back a sigh. Her chances of getting in without a warrant weren’t looking good. “I work cold cases for CPD, and Letitia Wiggins is a potential