Afraid to Die by Lisa Jackson

for the tow truck and a deputy to stay with the vehicle, Pescoli drove onward, taking a sharp right and following a twisting, snow-covered lane through stands of icy hemlock and pine that opened to a small clearing and the missing woman’s home, a two-bedroom cottage tucked far from the road.
    Pescoli parked.
    Alvarez yanked her gloves a little higher on her wrists. “No lights except for the Christmas strand.” She nodded toward the house.
    â€œIt’s late.”
    â€œYeah, but ...” She looked at the house.
    The front porch seemed to sag a bit, but a string of Christmas lights had been strung over the eaves. Alvarez checked her sidearm as she climbed out of the Jeep. Clicking on her flashlight, she surveyed the area and noted the path to the front door was covered in snow, one set of footprints softened with the falling snow approaching and encircling the house before leaving again.
    â€œSandi Aldridge said she knocked on the door and poked around the house, trying to see inside to check on Brenda Sutherland,” Pescoli explained as she ran her flashlight’s beam over the tracks.
    â€œThe only set.” She made her way up the front steps and shined the beam of her flashlight over the exterior. Though the downspouts showed rust and wear, the little cabin, set between thickets of trees, appeared homey. A bike had been left on the porch near a pair of boots that had been kicked off randomly. Several pots held dying plants and the welcome mat was worn thin.
    Aside from a breath of wind, the night was silent. Pescoli knocked on the door and rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside the house, but no footsteps approached.
    â€œMrs. Sutherland?” Pescoli called through the solid oak panels. “Brenda?”
    Nothing. Just the sigh of the wind and creak of frozen branches.
    â€œShe could have taken advantage of the no-kid thing and taken off,” Pescoli thought aloud. “But it doesn’t seem likely. One of the boys, his name is Dave or Darren or Don or ... no, it’s Drew, that’s right. He’s in Bianca’s class, or she has some classes with him; I’ve heard the name before and I think the mom was pretty devoted. Besides, as a single mom, she probably wouldn’t have ditched the job.”
    â€œOr the car.”
    â€œGood point.”
    They walked around the house, investigated the empty garage where clutter abounded and a dark stain on the cement floor suggested that Brenda Sutherland’s car might be leaking some kind of fluid.
    The yard was empty, thick with snow, and they climbed the back steps to another wide porch, this one complete with retractable clothesline and empty hornets’ nests tucked in the roof.
    Pescoli pounded on the back door until it rattled, then checked. Unlocked.
    â€œGot lucky,” she said and pushed it open.
    No snarling guard dog bolted from the interior, so they stepped cautiously inside, walking quickly through a small kitchen, where the faucet dripped over a sink of dirty dishes and the smell of tomato sauce hung heavy in the air.
    Moving quickly through a small dining cove with a red laminated table circa 1960 where two milk glasses and cereal bowls had been left, they entered the living area, which was much tidier, the worn furniture with straightened pillows and a rag rug coiled over scratched hardwood floors. A woodstove stood on one wall, cold to the touch, ashes piled within. The two bedrooms were empty, one with a set of bunk beds and clothes scattered everywhere, the other with a neat double bed, Bible on the nightstand, flannel nightgown and matching robe hung on a hook on the back side of the door. Her closet had a meager, if functional, set of clothes and the bathroom was small, cluttered and well used.
    No upstairs.
    No basement.
    No Brenda Sutherland.
    â€œDefinitely missing,” Pescoli said, stating the obvious to the empty rooms. “Guess we’d better have a chat with the