Free A Cold Dark Place by Gregg Olsen Page A

morning he didn’t come in . . . and oh, then the storm, and well, I didn’t even think about them until Monday morning.”
    Emily could tell from her voice that Maria had started to cry.
    “It’s all right,” Emily said, “you had no way of knowing.”
    “But I did ,” she said. “I knew something was wrong. Mr. Martin has never left like that. Ever. He’s never missed a day of work without calling in. I should have gone over there or something. Called the police.”
    This was typical of the last person to see a victim alive. Second-guessers, Emily called them. They were right up there with the neighbor who didn’t have a clue what the guy next door was up to. She called them “mushroomers” because they claimed they were completely in the dark. In reality, they wanted to be in the dark. Being aware that the neighborhood’s cat and dog population was being served at the church potluck was too much to take.
    “Did he say anything about the call to come home? What did Peg say?”
    “It wasn’t Peg.”
    “Who was it?”
    “He didn’t say. He just asked to speak to Mr. Martin.”
    “Was it Nicholas?”
    “Oh no. I know Nicky’s voice. This one . . . this one I’d never heard.”
    Emily thanked Maria and hung up. She was mystified. What was going on over at the Martins’ on Thursday that had both Mark and Nick leaving early?
    She looked at the clock. It was time to get home to Jenna.

Chapter Ten
    Tuesday, 5:40 P.M., Cherrystone, Washington
    Red spattered the countertops. A German-made butcher knife dripped crimson. A pot of water sent a cloud of steam from the stovetop toward the kitchen skylight. Emily Kenyon surveyed the kitchen. Orderliness had been replaced by chaos. Schoolbooks were scattered all over the tabletop; a navy sweatshirt was on the floor. Yet everything was still, save for the rolling boil of the six-quart Calphalon pot. A blue flame licked its blackened sides.
    “Jenna?”
    There was no answer and Emily’s heart rate accelerated. Her eyes darted about the room.
    “Jenna? Where are you?” She reached for the knob and turned down the gas. The pot slowed its boil to a simmer. “Jenna!”
    Emily heard a sound and spun around.
    “Hi Mom!” It was Jenna, emerging from the hallway. “Spaghetti tonight.”
    “So I see,” Emily said, lightening, and feeling a little foolish, but not wanting to say so. “And a mess to clean up.”
    Jenna reached for a dishcloth. “Yeah, it did get out of hand.” She picked up the knife she used to cut tomatoes for the sauce and deposited it in the sink. “But I wanted to make the sauce the way you like it and that takes work. Probably too much work. Next time, it’ll be out of a jar.”
    Emily smiled. She opened the refrigerator and saw that Jenna had made a salad—more tomatoes, Bibb lettuce, English cucumber. She grabbed a half bottle of merlot on the counter, uncorked it, and poured herself a glass.
    “Pepsi for you?” she asked.
    “Sure.”
    Emily retrieved a second stemmed glass and filled it with Pepsi. Jenna had gone to a lot of trouble making a special meal and a fancy glass was in order.
    “I had the proverbial day from hell,” Emily said. She slipped off her shoes and took a seat on one of the kitchen barstools while Jenna dumped a box of pasta into the water.
    “Did you salt it?” she asked.
    Jenna nodded. “Yes. And I already heard about your day. Everybody at school is talking about the Martins.”
    The merlot in Emily’s hand swirled in the crystal globe of the stemware, coating the sides and flowing back into a deep pool of garnet. The blood she’d seen at the Martin house flashed in her mind. She set down the glass.
    “I’ll bet. Seems like the whole world has literally turned over since the tornado.” Emily swiveled the barstool to face her daughter, now stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon as it foamed, nearly boiling over. “You know Nick Martin, don’t you, honey?”
    Jenna shrugged slightly, her eye still on