Free In Winter's Grip by Brenda Chapman Page A

chunks of ice crowded each other for position close to shore, but further out, the water reflected the crystal blue of the sky. A white lighthouse with a red cap stood guard on the peak of the cliff. It was this landmark that encouraged me to keep going toward the lake. Skidoos had flattened the snow that covered the sand base, making walking uneven but easier than going through deep, unpacked snow. I trudged along, happy to enjoy the fresh, cold breeze on my face, the beauty of the lakeshore and the glorious sense of isolation.
    Perhaps I should have been more wary, since my father’s killer was still running around free. Here I was, far from town with nobody knowing my whereabouts. My anger at my conniving father and his accomplice Claire kept me from being overly concerned. Besides, I didn’t believe that I was a target of anybody’s murderous rage—my father a target maybe, but not me.
    I reached the base of the cliff that rose steeply to the lighthouse, slightly winded but invigorated. Up close, its paint looked more weather-weary. I stopped and breathed deeply, looking across the lake to the line where the sky met the water, soaking in this view that I had ached for long after I’d moved away. Even now, back in Ottawa, I longed for Lake Superior, just as I imagined Maritimers longed for the ocean after they moved inland. I scanned the horizon—two lines of blue meeting. A sweep of emptiness rose in my throat.
    I miss my mother. I miss my mother. I fought down the grief that I would not, could not allow out. I was too old to miss my mother. The dampness in my eyes was from the wind. I took off my sunglasses and swiped angrily at my eyes before pushing the glasses back into place. I have no parents now. The thought came unbidden. Even though I’d barely spoken to my father for years, I still knew he was living his life in our house in Duved Cove. In some corner of my mind, I’d held to the belief that we could patch things up. It was a flame flickering faintly, if only on those long, lonely nights when I couldn’t sleep. It was an emotion I’d kept stubbornly to myself, half the time not even letting it into my heart. His death would not let me pretend any more. There would be no reconciliation. There would be no happy ending for me.
    I turned and started retracing my steps, head lowered. So here it was. Somebody had killed my father in cold blood. Thwacked him across the back of his head and left him in the snow to die like an animal. For a reason bigger than myself, I needed to know why. I had no faith in Tobias Olsen’s ability to untangle the truth. My father had been a complex man who did not reveal his true self to the outside world. If Jonas had killed our dad, I would find out before Tobias and would make sure he never learned the truth. It would be my turn to help Jonas heal.
    By the time I reached the car, I was feeling chilled, but the new resolve in my belly felt good. Dad had been sleeping with Becky Holmes. She was the person with whom to start my investigation.
    I checked for Becky Wilders’ address in the payphone booth at the gas station near the highway turnoff. The Wilders’ name was listed twice, but only one Kevin at 27 Rose Lane. It meant backtracking through town, but even at that, it was only a ten-minute drive.
    I pulled up outside the Wilders’ bungalow. Hunter green siding with mocha-coloured trim looked to have been recently installed. A child’s red plastic sled lay in the pathway next to a snow blower. A green van was backed into the driveway.
    I stepped carefully around the snow blower and climbed the front steps. Before I had a chance to knock, the front door opened. A more faded version of the Becky I remembered stood with one hand on the door and another holding the hand of a little boy who looked to be about three. He had the same red hair and hazel eyes as Becky.
    Becky had been three years behind me in school. She and Jonas had