Free Dead of Winter by P. J. Parrish Page A

riot-control units. They surrounded his car. He couldn’t get out.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold. “He was black. It didn’t matter,” she said.
    Louis leaned his head back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. When he looked back at her, she was staring at the fire.
    He rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. He set the mug down and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the sink.
    “It’s late,” she said. “I’d better go.”
    He turned to face her. She was standing by the door. She slipped on her running shoes, kneeling to lace them up. Louis came over to the door and reached for his jacket.
    “I’ll drive you,” he said.
    “It’s not necessary.”
    “I want to.”
    They said nothing as they trudged out through the snow to the Mustang, half-buried in a drift. Louis wanted to say something, anything to fill the chill void that had formed between them. He wanted this to move forward somehow. Despite what she had said. Despite what he was.
    The Mustang started after several tries. “It’s an old car,” Louis said. “I never know what will happen. Sorry, there’s no heat.”
    She nodded vigorously. “Take 44 north,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
    She said nothing after that. Louis made a few weak comments about the snow, the cold, the lake. But she remained silent. Finally, she directed him to turn onto a small side road and stop at the bottom of a hill.
    “It’s steep. Your car won’t make it up. I’ll walk from here,” she said quickly.
    She opened the door. Louis grabbed her left hand.
    “I want to see you again,” he said.
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Why not?” he pressed.
    In the dim glow of the car’s overhead light, he could see something anxious cloud her face.
    “I don’t know you,” she said. “And you don’t know me.”
    “Okay, but I want to.” His hand tightened on hers.
    She shook her head slowly.
    “Let’s just try it,” Louis said.
    She looked down at his hand. He felt her arm tense as she tried to pull away. He let go.
    “I have to go,” she said.
    “Zoe — ”
    She got out of the car, started to close the door then stopped. She looked away, up the hill into the dark woods and then back at Louis.
    “Do you run?” she asked.
    “I used to in college. Cross-country.”
    “What did you think about?”
    Louis had only thought about winning the race but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Everything.”
    She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. When I run.”
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 7
     
    Louis pulled the scarf up over his face against the blinding wind. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he could make out the glow of the station house sign and breathed an icy sigh of relief. It was only a one mile walk from his cabin to the station, but Jesus, what a long damn mile.
    He forged ahead, hurrying the last steps. Inside, he fell back against the glass. The warm air filled his lungs, sending a violent shiver through him.
    Florence, the day-shift dispatcher, looked up from the desk. “Louis, are you all right?”
    He nodded and slowly unwrapped his scarf. He could feel the ice melting off his eyebrows. For a moment he just stood, afraid his bones would snap if he moved.
    “Did you walk to work?” Florence asked.
    He nodded again and moved stiffly to the fireplace, pulling off his hardened leather gloves. “Car wouldn’t start.”
    Florence went to the coffee urn. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you call someone?”
    Louis watched her as she poured a cup of coffee. She was in her sixties, a frizz of white hair topping a willow-thin body. She looked like a Q-tip, a skinny negative to Edna’s rotund positive.
    “No phone yet,” Louis said. He unzipped the jacket and let it drop off his arms.
    Florence pressed a mug of coffee into his hands and held her bands over his for several seconds. She smelled like peppermint and her wrinkled hands were warm. “Next time, you radio