A preview of Frost Bite, Chase Adams book #15

Prologue

March 14th, 1993

Brackenridge Ski Resort, Denver, Colorado

The biting cold doesn’t slow the man down.

It never does.

He’s a product of the ice and snow. Born in it.

Thrives in it.

The girl was a different story. She barely made it an hour in the blizzard before her lips turned blue. At least when the frostbite numbed her fingers and toes, she stopped complaining.

He hated her whining. That incessant whine.

Please, I just want to see my mommy. Please, it’s soooo cold.

He took a step back and observed his handiwork. It wasn’t… bad.

It wasn’t his best, either.

The problem was that it was too cold. Not for him, but for the snow. The weather had taken a turn over the past few days and as much as he wanted to wait for it to warm up, the urge to kill had grown strong.

It had been nearly a year since his last kill.

Too long.

Far too long.

The warmer weather would have made the snow moist, making his job significantly more manageable.

Still, he persevered.

The man cocked his head.

The bottom snowball had been the most difficult and he’d been forced to melt some of the snow with a blowtorch to render it slushy enough to roll.

The second had been less troublesome.

Like all of his victims, he stood them upright, a task that he’d learned long ago was far easier the more frozen their little bodies became. He encased the girl’s lower half in the first snowball, packing it hard against both her snowsuit and the icy ground to ensure a solid base.

The middle section was only slightly smaller than the bottom, but required significantly less snow to complete. He pulled her arms out of the ball, spread them wide. They stayed that way, and would stay that way, forever.

Next, the man packed snow directly on the girl’s head, pressing it against her woolen cap, against her hood.

This proved difficult as the coat was made of some sort of synthetic material designed to retard snow accumulation.

But even this was only a minor inconvenience. He was experienced, proficient.

In the end, the only exposed flesh was the girl’s face, her small features frozen solid. Ice crystals had build up on her eyelashes and eyebrows, giving her an almost ethereal appearance.

Her eyes had been brown but they soon turned gray, first with the cold, then with death.

With his first kill, this had surprised the man.

He liked to think that the way the color drained from their features was a reflection of their leaving their body. Sucked out by the cold.

By him.

The man stared at the girl’s face for a few more moments, imprinting that frozen expression of terror on his memory.

Is that what she looked like, wherever she was?

He would’ve stayed there for longer, much longer, but they were waiting for him.

The man sighed, his warm breath visible in front of his face.

“Goodbye, my little snow angel,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again next year.”

And the year after that.

And the year after that…

Part I - The Wedding

Chapter 1

In many ways, second weddings are better than the first. For one, the bride and groom tended to be more mature. They weren’t drowning in lust, unable to appreciate the nuance and significance of the day. The only downside was that the fiery ardor typical of newlyweds was often absent.

This wasn’t the case for Tate Abernathy.

He’d managed to catch a glimpse of Chase in her ‘wedding gown’—a short, strapless, navy dress, one of just a few of the traditions they’d opted out of—and she was absolutely stunning.

Tate had wanted to go to her then, hold her, kiss her, do other more nefarious things, but she’d just smiled and ushered him away.

Told him to get his ass ready.

Tate stared at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his tie. He wasn't as good-looking as Chase, not even close, but was by no means ugly, and the exercise that is wife-to-be had forced him to partake in over the past few years had drastically improved his appearance. He would never have what his daughter referred to as an Instagram body, but he wasn't flabby anymore. Some of the dark circles around his eyes had lightened and what had once been loose skin had tightened significantly.

His flesh lacked the springiness of youth, but it was no longer hanging off his body.

Still, Tate’s job, stressful as it was, made it so that he would never have a vibrant appearance. He did what he could with what he had and what more could one ask for?

Tate ran a hand through his hair, and then cringed at the result. He was desperately trying to smooth his hair back into place when he heard the door open behind him. In the mirror, he caught Rachel’s reflection as she entered. She, too, looked beautiful. Looked a lot like her mother, in fact. Unlike him, her dark locks were expertly coiffed so that they curled and hung in front of her shoulders. She was wearing a dark spaghetti strap dress that had a slight sheen to it.

Tate found himself smiling without even thinking about. But then he noticed his daughter’s expression and his grin faded.

"Honey? What's wrong?"

Rachel lowered her eyes and opened her mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it. Her cheeks were slack, her bare shoulders rolled forward. Tate walked over to her, hugged her close.

She was shuddering slightly.

"Rachel? What's wrong?"

"I miss mom," the girl said, her voice hitching.

The comment surprised Tate.

Rachel didn’t talk much about her mother—neither of them did. In a way, this was similar to Chase and her sister. True, Robin Levine—after the divorce had been finalized, she had dropped the Abernathy and went by her maiden name—was still alive, while the elder Georgina Adams was not. Robin was, however, out of the picture. Being incarcerated had a way of rendering true the old adage ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

"I miss her, too," Tate said. His initial motivation for making this comment was just to comfort his daughter, but as soon as the words left his mouth, Tate realized that they were true.

He missed Robin.

Before the accident, his relationship with the woman had been in a good place. Over the nearly twenty years that they’d been together, things hadn’t always been that way. Most of their issues stemmed from Tate’s job. Like most people in law enforcement, Tate had done his best to keep the horrors that he witnessed on a near daily basis out of his personal life.

Shielded Robin from them.

But complete separation was next to impossible.

The worst of it had been when he’d been hunting The Sandman. Tate had been torn between two worlds, a young FBI agent with a toddler at home, Robin suffering from delayed postpartum depression. And his partner Constantine Stryiker… Tate spent a lot of his working hours babysitting the man, trying to ensure that he didn’t completely go off the rails.

He wasn't sure he succeeded, but the strain on his and Robin's relationship had been considerable.

The only way they’d managed to get through it had been to put physical space between himself and Con and California.

Did Tate feel guilty about getting married to Chase?

He did.

He often wondered if he would feel the same if Robin’s incarceration had been her fault and not because she was just covering for Rachel.

Maybe.

Either way, the fact that he was free, living his life, getting remarried of all things and forming a blended family, while his ex-wife was rotting away in a jail cell, ate away at him. But what he felt for Chase couldn’t be denied. It was different with her, too, different than even how things had been with Robin at the very beginning.

For one, they were both in law enforcement, which meant they had a level of understanding that Tate had never experienced with Robin. Two, Chase was… unique. He loved Robin, still did, but what he had with Chase was something special.

Tate had Robin had attended the same high school in California in a small suburban town called Mill Valley. The high school had just over fourteen hundred students, and Tate had been two years above Robin. He'd seen her around enough to recognize her, but they never really spoke.

It wasn't until after he’d graduated when Tate turned 21 and entered the bar scene did they have their first encounter.

Tate knew that Robin was underage when he spotted her during a break from his degree in Psychology from Mills College.

Already a handful of pints deep, Tate had approached her and joked that he was going to tell the bouncer that she had a fake ID. She’d flirted, told him if that if he did that, it would be his loss.

They hung out that night, consuming God only knew how many drinks, but nothing happened.

Knowing only her first name, Tate, who was nursing a wicked hangover, had gone back to the bar the following night, in the hopes of running into her again. Robin must have had the same idea, because there she was.

Nearly dead and drinking nothing but soda water, but there.

Their relationship had blossomed. Not long after, they’d gotten married.

And they’d been happy.

If the accident had never happened, Tate imagined that his life would be very different.

Not better, not worse, just different.

Guilt was an emotion that he usually didn't have much time for, but every once in a while it reared its ugly head.

Today, however, was supposed to be a happy day.

Guilt was supposed to know its place and remain in hiding.

"Rach, I spoke to your mom," Tate said at last, easing back from his daughter and raising her chin. "She's okay with this, you know."

Rachel had tears in her eyes as she nodded.

"I know."

It was true; Tate had asked his ex-wife permission to date Chase, in a roundabout way, which, in retrospect, hadn’t been necessary. She’d known that he’d been in love just by looking at his face. That’s what being together for twenty odd years did.

And then, when Chase had finally decided to surprise him with an actual wedding date and put an end to years of procrastination, Tate had gone to Robin again.

She’d smiled, said she was happy for him.

It was unfair, but no one promised that life would be fair.

"Don't cry, sweetie, you'll ruin your makeup."

Rachel grinned. Once more, Tate took a step back to observe his daughter. He recalled how she’d looked while he was hunting The Sandman with Con.

Big eyes, bigger smile.

Now she was a full grown woman. It was clichéd, but they really did grow up way faster than anyone expected.

When Rachel didn't say anything, Tate added, "Look, if you don't want me to go through this, I won't." The words hurt, but he stuck by them. He loved Chase, loved Georgina, but his priority was, and always would be, Rachel.

"No," she said. And then she beamed. It was no longer that big goofy grin that she had had as a toddler, but a more mature look. And it reminded him a lot of Robin.

Tate felt tears welling in his own eyes and forced them away.

"I just want you to be happy."

She sounded like Robin, too. Same voice, same words.

Tate leaned down and kissed Rachel on the forehead.

"I am happy, Rachel. I'm very happy. Now, go get ready. We don't have much time."

Chapter 2

Another major difference with second weddings is that you could do away with most of the first wedding bullshit.

Chase’s first wedding had been traditional and beautiful. Her father had walked her down the aisle while wedding music played. A priest read a small sermon.

Her first dance had been with her father, her second with Brad’s dad.

They’d stayed up late, drank too much, pressed cake into her husband’s face.

Laughed.

Cried.

Had sloppy sex. Woke up with a headache for the first time next to the man she now called her husband.

The guest list had been mixed. Half friends of hers and Brad’s, half their parents’, who had collectively footed the bill. Chase knew only a handful of these people, and even then only in passing.

Today was different.

For one, her parents weren’t in attendance. Her father was dead and her mother was fully demented. Both of Tate’s parent’s were present, but they were advanced in their years and his father was in no shape to dance.

Then there was Georgina and Rachel.

There had been no kids at that first wedding.

As for friends, well, not a single person from her first time around was in attendance today. This didn’t bother Chase as it might have others. The truth was, none of those friends stuck around. None of them stuck around when her father had taken his own life. When her mother had gotten ill.

Or when she finally found Georgina.

Chase knew full well that this was as much her own fault as theres. She wasn’t any good at maintaining relationships. There was also the fact that bad things seemed to happen to most people who got close to her.

Still, despite everything, Chase was a tad nervous.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

She was standing alone behind the large wooden doors of the hall that she had Tate had rented for the occasion.

Chase opened her eyes and peered through the glass insert in the door. If it had been completely up to her, she would've opted for a town hall wedding and a small party afterwards.

Tate would've been okay with that too, she knew.

But Georgina and Rachel wouldn't even hear of it. So, she humored them, allowed the girls to plan mostly everything.

She only vetoed a priest and a church.

But now, as Chase peered at the rows of chairs, recognizing the backs of the guests’ heads that were trained on the small stage, she felt a wave of nostalgia.

None of her friends from the first wedding were there, but some of her true friends had showed up.

Director Hampton was seated near the back by himself. Stu Barnes, sporting a suit that was probably more expensive than the entire modest wedding setup, was also there. Chase spotted Floyd sitting next to Stitts, their presence bringing a smile to her colored lips.

Two others sat on her side of the aisle—a tradition that Georgina had insisted they honor—and it took her a moment to place them.

The first was a thin man with a shaved head and ratty blond goatee. The second was black, broad shouldered, his suit struggling to contain his burly muscles.

How the hell did they find out about today? Chase wondered with a hint of humor.

It was Screech and Leroy, two members of the now defunct PI firm DSLH Investigations. As much as Chase was pleased to see them, the fact that the two other members were missing caused her face to drop.

Drake and Hannah.

The last she'd heard of Hannah, the woman was on the lam following the death of The Straw Man killer who turned his victims into human skin suits.

As for Drake?

A pang of guilt shot through her insides.

Drake had been incarcerated, something to do with importing heroin into the United States.

Chase had worked with Drake years ago—Shit, was it really years?—back in New York City when they both been detectives. Their lives had diverged considerably since that time, with Drake going into private investigating after being kicked out of the NYPD, and Chase joining the FBI.

They’d collaborated on several cases over the years, and each time, it felt as if their relationship hadn't skipped a beat. It was always contentious, but every relationship that Chase had was contentious. It was part of the package, take it or leave it.

Damien Drake was a lot of things, least of all an alcoholic. He was rash, he was impulsive, and he was a loose cannon.

Chase shook her head, thinking that this was an apt description of herself as well.

But he was loyal. Importing drugs after spending the majority of his career hunting and eventually bringing down the mayor of New York for the very same thing?

Impossible.

Which meant that Drake had taken the fall for someone. A fall that had landed him in prison for four years.

How long ago had that been? Three years? Five? She couldn’t remember.

Chase had been so wrapped up in her own problems that she hadn’t once reached out to the man she’d called a friend.

The twisting in her guts became a knot as she attempted to assuage her guilt by observing the rest of the guests.

Two notable absences were Brad and Felix. Tate had insisted that she invite them and Chase had reluctantly agreed.

They couldn’t make it but sent their best. Chase was relieved. The last thing she wanted was to put her son in danger… again.

The other side of the room was occupied by Tate’s friends and family. She saw the two gray-haired people at the front, his parents, their chins lifted. She spotted a man with stark black hair, seated next to a woman she didn't recognize.

There were also a handful of college buddies and colleagues Tate had worked with over the years.

All in all, a small crowd.

Just the way Chase wanted it.

Her eyes naturally drifted from the people seated in their chairs to the stage itself.

Flanking her husband-to-be were their two girls.

To the left, Rachel Abernathy.

Chase knew firsthand what time could do a person, how it could change you, usually for the worst.

Rachel was very different now than when they’d first me. Then, she’d been a girl who was confined to a wheelchair, her depression exacerbated by the fact that she barely slept a few hours a night on account of her night terrors from the accident. Tate would comfort her, sit in a chair and wait until the morning.

Today, Rachel was standing tall and proud, beautiful in a shimmering dress. She no longer required her support poles let alone a wheelchair.

And then there was Georgina. Georgina Adams, a spitting image of Chase's late sister of the same name. Her bright orange hair had been cut short, which made it wavy.

She, too, was a woman now. Although only barely fifteen, Georgina was fully developed. She wore a classy flower print dress I came down to above her ankles, and her feet had been jammed into high heels that Chase had reluctantly paid a couple hundred dollars for.

Seeing Georgina now made Chase’s heart sink.

Her sister hadn't attended her first wedding for obvious reasons.

Now, she wasn’t here because she was dead.

Chase closed her eyes again.

Georgina, I miss you. I fucking miss you.

A series of memories flashed in her mind. First of her sister as Riley in the white dress.

Then of Tim Jalston, blood everywhere, his throat slit by Chase’s hand.

Then Brian.

The brothers had indoctrinated Georgina and others, turning them into their wives and impregnating them.

A horrible, false existence.

But at least it was a life.

A life that Chase had stolen from her sister.

If it hadn’t been for her, Georgina would still be alive.

Chase looked down, taking in her navy dress.

She suddenly felt stupid in it.

I hate this, Chase thought. I really hate this.

Anger bubbled up inside her then, anger that she'd been so good at keeping at bay for so long.

But anger was like a jilted lover. It inevitably came back into your life and no matter many times it abused you in the past, you fell into the same rhythm, the same destructive pattern.

"Fuck this," she said out loud.

Chase spun and hurried away from the doors, kicking off her high heeled shoes—white, not nearly as expensive as Georgina's but equally as nice—and headed for the exit.

She was reaching for the handle when they unexpectedly opened.

A man blocked her path and, at first, Chase, vision watery and head down, didn't look at him. She just gestured for him to move out of the way so she could leave.

The man didn't move. Chase shifted to one side and now he deliberately blocker he path.

Fuming, Chase finally raised her head. She instantly recognized the man.

"Chase? I’m sorry I'm late. Had a couple patients who—what's wrong?"

Chase forced back tears.

"I don't think I can do this."

She expected Dr. Matteo to utter his stupid mantra about living in the moment, in the present but he didn’t. Dr. Matteo just looked at her through his round spectacle.

He didn't have to say anything because everything had already been said.

Since the events at the Williamsburg Collegiate Institute and the hospital, Chase had been attending regular sessions with her niece and the psychiatrist.

This had been that Georgina’s behest but, quite frankly, they’d been helpful. While the focus was primarily on Georgina, they broached many subjects during these sessions, and as it got closer to the wedding date, this frequently became a topic of interest.

Dr. Matteo tried his best to never take a firm stance on anything, just resigned himself to asking annoying questions in an attempt for you to reach a conclusion on your own.

And the conclusion that Chase had reached in regards to her wedding was that it was, indeed, something she wanted.

"I don't deserve this," she said flatly.

"Chase, I know you feel that—"

Chase hadn’t been talking to Dr. Matteo—she’d just been musing aloud.

"I don't deserve this," she said with more conviction. "But they do." They, meaning Tate and Rachel and Georgina. "Fuck it."

Barefooted, Chase returned to the wedding hall and opened the door.

The moment she did, a piano began to play.

_______

That's it for the preview! Don't forget to pre-order your copy of Frost Bite, the 15th book in the best-selling Chase Adams series.

You keep reading, I'll keep writing.

Pat