Now, who cares what Mr. Carson thinks?

Shivering, she cautiously crossed the porch and nearly broke her butt as she slipped on the first icy stair. Her teeth snapped together as a sharp jolt shot up her spine and out of her limbs.

OK. No paper today.

She inched her way back to the door and spotted a small package propped beside the doorframe. “DR. LACEY CAMPBELL,” was handwritten in capital letters.

What the hell?

No address, no postmark. Someone must have dropped it by yesterday. Squeezing it, she felt the outline of a disc. She frowned. Had someone at work told her he had a DVD for her?

Ripping the package open, she relaxed as she entered the warmth of her home and inhaled the scent of strong coffee. A silver video disc popped out into her hands. No label. Curious, she picked up her coffee and headed for the TV in the family room.

She popped the disc in the player, grabbed the cat circling her feet, and sat on the sofa, scratching Eve under her chin. The TV screen was showing nothing but grayish snow. Crap. Was it blank?

The screen abruptly cleared, revealing an image of a concrete-block walled room. The camera shakily panned, displaying a crowded mess. Dented cardboard boxes stacked in corners leaned in short towers. Old wooden chairs, broken pieces of tables, and a roll of stained carpet filled the tight space. The images were grainy, as if the tape was old or had been copied over several times. The camera moved to a small iron twin bed, and Lacey felt her chest contract as the camera focused on the blonde woman tied to the headboard.

Suzanne.

Eve squawked, and Lacey let go of the cat she’d suddenly choked. Eve leaped off her lap and shot out of the room, her claws skittering, searching for traction on the wood floor.

Lacey held her breath.

Suzanne’s face came into focus. Her eyes were half-closed, but she shot a brief arrow of hatred directly at the camera before her expression grew blank. She didn’t wrestle with her bonds, the fight seemed purged from her system. Her hair was unkempt and long. Longer than Lacey had ever seen it. And it was straggly, even greasy. Suzanne’s head turned to the camera again, making eye contact with Lacey, then looking away, her chin dropping. The camera rudely traced down her body, which was clothed in a tattered T-shirt and sweatpants.

Oh, my God.

Lacey stared harder, focusing on the bulge under Suzanne’s T-shirt as her own hands searched blindly beside her for the remote on the sofa cushions. Her eyes never left the screen. If she looked away, the image might vanish. She had to pause the DVD! Where the fuck was the remote?

Dear Lord. Suzanne was pregnant.

There was no mistaking the distinct protruding belly. As Lacey watched, she saw a ripple of movement under the T-shirt. Her hands froze in their search. The baby was moving.

What happened to the baby? Where was Suzanne’s baby?

Not a baby. A child now. Possibly nine or ten years old.

The image vanished, returning to dirty snow. “No-o-o!” Lacey screamed.

Tearing her gaze from the screen, she spotted the remote on the side table and grabbed it. As she turned back to the TV, ready to hit rewind, new images cut across the screen. Darker and sharper this time. This scene was shot outdoors, a city at night.

Standing, she pointed the remote at the screen, her finger hovering over the rewind button as she squinted at the dark images of parked cars and trucks. The camera scanned from vehicle to vehicle. She caught sight of a Ford Mustang. A new one. A current body style. Her breath caught. This part of the disc had been shot recently.

For a desperate second she believed Suzanne could be alive and pregnant somewhere.

No. Lacey felt her chest deflate. Suzanne’s body had been found dumped under an apartment. Lacey had held her bones. Tears burned in her eyes.

Lacey sucked in a shuddering breath and stared at the screen, trying to get the sudden vision of Suzanne’s lonely skull out of her mind.

Then she saw him, and Lacey collapsed back on the sofa. Jack Harper. He was leaning into her truck as he gave her a long kiss and then slammed her door shut. Lacey stared at her own stunned face through the truck window. The camera jerked, and she heard the shooter curse explicitly under his breath.

Lacey gagged, stumbled off the bed, and dashed into the bathroom, heaving over the toilet. Sweat beaded across her face, and dark clouds threatened her vision.

That kiss wasn’t ten hours old.

He fussed with his latte. It wasn’t sweet enough, and he’d already taken it back once. The barista had scorched it the first time, and that nasty taste still lingered in his mouth. She’d made a new drink and had given him a coupon for a free latte next time. At least she’d taken care of his complaint. If you’re going to do something, do it right.

His knee jiggled as he waited at the little table. He scanned the other patrons in the coffee shop and hummed along with the store’s music, until he realized it was Willie Nelson. He hated country music. It triggered images of his father.

Outside, the day was crispy blue and sunny, but twenty freezing degrees. The wind was the worst. It had that biting, icy chill that froze your nose within five seconds of venturing outside. Only the brave gambled with driving on the slick roads.

Driving in snow and ice didn’t bother him. He’d grown up with that sort of weather. But in this town, the long cold snap was unfamiliar. In a typical Portland winter, a half inch of snowfall would close down the city as wrecks jammed the freeways and side roads. Portlanders were clueless when it came to navigating in snow. Thank God, he’d grown up where driving in the snow was necessary.