Page 43 of Cold, Cold Bones

First off, I fed Birdie as he absolutely expected. While making coffee, I checked the situation outside. The sky still glowered gray and unfriendly. The snow had stopped, but I estimated that at least fourteen inches had managed to stick.

The grounds around the annex were an undulating field of white. I could see no gardens, no shrubbery, no porches or stairs. My car looked like a frosty hippo hunkered down on the driveway.

I poured myself a generous helping of Cheerios, then settled at the table with my mug and bowl. And the TV remote.

Confession. I am a news junkie. Of the old order. I still subscribe to the CharlotteObserver, the hard-copy version, delivered to my door daily. Katy makes fun of me, but I like the feel and smell of newsprint. I enjoy spreading and slowly leafing through the pages.

It’s said that nothing new ever happens. To some extent, that’s true. It’s like rotating items on a blackboard menu. Monday: hurricane. Tuesday: good/bad jobs report. Wednesday: mass shooting. Thursday: uprising in small foreign country. My obsession is knowing what item is on the board on any given day.

That morning there was zero chance that a kid on a bike would toss a paper on my porch, so I turned on the tiny countertop TV and chose CNN. The regulars were bringing me “the latest news, weather, and high interest stories to start my day.”

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside mine. Apparently, I was being forgiven for the late breakfast service. More likely, he had hopes of scoring the milk dregs left in my bowl. He circled twice, then dropped and began cleaning his paws.

At eight o’clock, wanting an update on driving conditions, I switched to the local ABC station. Not that I was going anywhere.

My fourteen-inch estimate was spot on. Unfortunately—the weatherman looked sincerely sad—that total fell short of the county’s all-time best. On February 15, 1902, Mecklenburg got smacked with a mind-boggling fifteen inches. But no state ribbon. On March 13, 1993, Mount Mitchell in Yancey County had recorded a whopping three feet.

It was more information than I needed, but confirmation that I’d be spending the day at home.

I crossed to Mr. Coffee to refill my mug. Was offering my bowl to the cat when the hour’s lead news story caught my attention. I froze, cup in hand, eyes focused on the small Sony.

Like the weatherman, the newscaster looked appropriately grim.And anchorlike: surgically bobbed blond hair, teeth that were a testimonial to braces and regular brushing.

“—unidentified body found at Lake Norman State Park, just off the Lake Shore Trail. The victim is a white male, forty, six feet in height. He was found by park ranger Terrence Edy.”

The station switched to footage of Edy being interviewed by a reporter with a handheld mike.

“How did you find the body?” The voice pitch suggested a female journalist.

“I do regular patrol.”

What?

“How long had the man been in the park?”

“Maybe a year, maybe three. Hard to say. He was really dried out.”

I felt a spark flame in my chest.

“Dried out?”

“Yeah. Like a mummy.”

“What did you do?”

“Called the ME. I’ve had training in forensic anthropology, so I suggested they send one.”

The heat roared up my throat and blasted my face.

I’m no rock star at anger management. And what I was feeling now wasn’t minor irritation—an upset over the plumber not showing on time or the car trunk refusing to open. No. It was true, nerve-frying, fiery, lava-red fury. I don’t often lose my temper, but when it happens, I go full-on Kilauea. Call it a character flaw.

“Damn!”

Birdie coiled at the ferocity of my expletive. Held a beat, then relaxed, radiating disapproval.

“And did they?” the journalist asked.

“Yeah. Brennan. She’s the only game around here.”