Chapter 16 Cosi
Cosi
Chuck and Larry were still at the cabin when I parked the Bronco in the driveway beside Ike’s Ford Ranger.
Ilsa’s anxious energy had been our invisible passenger on the drive to Cotters Lake, coiling tighter and tighter the closer we came to her house.
She’d insisted on coming up here to assess the damage, and while I hated that she was dealing with this bullshit at all, I admired her for facing it head-on.
She’d been fairly quiet on the drive, listening as I’d explained what had happened. Asking a few questions. Mostly, she’d looked like she was trying not to cry.
When I found the person who did this, they’d better pray I was in a merciful mood.
This morning, after checking in at the station, I’d wanted to take yet another look around Ilsa’s place with the head of the fire department.
We’d met at the cabin, planning to walk around the shed and glean any other information possible.
I’d hoped he would be able to tell if someone had poured diesel on the shed before lighting it on fire.
Except when I’d arrived, the front door to the cabin had been ajar. When I’d stepped inside, it had been entirely ransacked.
I’d radioed for Chuck and Larry to come out immediately, and we’d been here most of the day, taking photographs and dusting for fingerprints. Then while they’d finished up, I’d returned to town to tell Ilsa.
It was sheer good luck and good timing that I’d seen her walk into the bar as I’d driven by.
Later, we’d talk about why she’d gone to Trick’s. We’d also talk about him asking her on a date. But first, we needed to deal with the cabin.
“You don’t have to go inside,” I told her. “Just tell me what you’d like, and I’ll get it.”
She shook her head. “I need to see it for myself.”
“Okay. Sit tight.” I shut off the engine and got out, rounding the hood to open her door for her. Then I walked with her to the house, my hand on the small of her back.
It was more possessive than necessary. So was my insistence on opening her door. But at the moment, after what I’d seen today, after last night, I was feeling fairly fucking possessive.
“How’d they get inside?” she asked.
“From what I can tell, through the front door.” There were no broken windows. No signs of forced entry.
“Shit.” She slowed, forehead furrowing. “I can’t remember if I locked up.”
“No one in Dalton locks up. Especially out here.” This was a safe town. A break-in was practically unheard of.
The door swung open and Larry stepped outside, zipping up his coat. “We’re all done, boss.”
“Thanks.”
Chuck followed him out carrying a fingerprint kit. “Sorry, Miss Poe.”
“Me too.” She blinked too fast, her eyes lowering. “Can I go inside?”
“Yeah.” As she stepped across the threshold, I hung back, dropping my voice as I spoke to my deputies. “This is priority.”
“Understood.” Chuck nodded, then walked to his cruiser as I joined Ilsa in the cabin.
She stood in the small entryway, her arms wrapped around her middle as she surveyed the mess.
The kitchen cabinets were all open, dishes and jars pulled from their shelves and smashed on the hardwood floor. Their broken pieces were scattered with the silverware and utensils that had been thrown from drawers.
Ilsa’s boots crunched on glass and ceramic shards as she picked her way toward the living room, where the couch was turned on its back. Every cushion had been sliced through, the upholstery split to reveal the yellowed foam stuffing.
The television was upended, the black cord’s prongs barely clinging to the outlet. The coffee table had been stomped so hard it had cracked down the center. The stack of chopped wood beside the fireplace had been strewn throughout the space.
“Why would someone do this?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” I dropped to a crouch, picking up the phone. It was off its cradle, the spiral cord stretched so far it would never coil tight again. But I fitted it to the base, picking the entire thing up and setting it on the countertop.
The rage I’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance. It was even stronger now that I was here with her. Without question, the motherfucker who did this was going to pay.
Ilsa had told me the other night she hadn’t made many friends. But an enemy who’d resort to this? It screamed immature. Emotional. Revenge.
It had to be a pissed-off student. Some kid hell-bent on punishing her.
She moved deeper into the living room, bending to pick up a smashed picture frame and shake away the broken glass.
The faded picture she lifted out was of her as a kid, her two front teeth missing as she smiled at the camera, holding up a fish she’d caught.
Her mouth twisted as she caught a tear at the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry, Ilsa,” I said.
“I think . . .” She spun in a slow circle, taking in the destruction.
Her spirit, that tenacity and strength, withered before my eyes until her face went blank and distant.
Like she was seeing someone else’s home destroyed, not her own.
She didn’t finish her sentence as she set down the broken frame and carried that photo to her bedroom.
It was as bad as the rest of the house. Her clothes had been yanked off hangers. Her underwear had been pulled from the dresser drawers. That someone had touched her bras and panties only stoked my simmering rage, but I kept a lock on that anger.
Tomorrow morning, during my daily workout at the station’s weight room, I’d take it out on a heavy bag.
Ilsa didn’t need me to lose my cool on top of everything else.
I stood in the bedroom’s threshold, watching as she snatched clothes from the floor, stuffing them into a suitcase she’d set on the bed’s frame. The mattress had been tossed against the wall, sliced through to the springs and stuffing.
“What else do you need?” I asked. “Let me help.”
“I don’t even know.” She paused packing, scanning the room. There was a single high heel in one hand, a pair of sweats in the other as her gaze shifted to the wall behind her bed. “There’s a small white box in the other room. In the trunk. It’s Dad’s ashes. If it’s still intact—”
A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes as her entire body shuddered. Probably at the thought of someone tossing her father’s remains around his bedroom.
“They didn’t open it. I’ll grab it.”
Her frame sagged. “Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“No.” She returned to collecting her things as I made my way to Ike’s bedroom. It was a mess, like the rest of the cabin, but there was a stale taste to the air, like Ilsa had kept this door closed.
Ike’s clothes had been ripped from his closet, his mattress upended and slashed too. Whatever contents he’d kept in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed had been strewn around the room. Except for the box Ilsa was after. It was still at the bottom of the trunk.
The person who’d done this had probably read the crematory label and backed off. Or they’d taken one look under the lid and realized the plastic bag lining the box wasn’t filled with dirt, but ash.
I tucked it under my arm, then picked my way back to the door, stepping over books and blankets and shredded feather pillows, meeting Ilsa in the hall.
She was lugging an overfilled suitcase out of her room.
“I’ll take that.”
She dropped it, like the handle was hot, and spun for the bathroom to keep packing.
By the time I’d loaded the box and suitcase into the Bronco, she was finished, walking out the door with a bag hung over each shoulder. She wouldn’t meet my gaze as she walked to Ike’s truck.
“Fuck,” I muttered, hustling over to grab the bags. “Hold up.”
“I need a vehicle, Cosi. I can’t—” Her attention landed on the rear tire, and she did a double take.
What she hadn’t noticed when we’d pulled up were the tires. All four had been slashed and the bench seat inside sliced apart. They’d slashed the tires on the Rabbit too.
The despair that settled over her beautiful face was unbearable, like someone had a fist around my heart and wouldn’t stop squeezing.
Ilsa’s chin quivered, and she didn’t try to stop the tears as they cascaded down her cheeks. Her bags slipped off her shoulders, plopping on the snow.
“It’ll be okay.” I framed her face, using my thumbs to catch them for her. “I’ve already called the garage. They’re coming up tomorrow to bring the truck into town. We’ll get it fixed. We’ll put the house to rights. I know it’s bad, but it’ll be okay.”
She nodded, but the tears only came faster and a ragged sob broke free. She slapped a hand over her mouth to quiet the next one.
I pulled her into my chest, holding tight as she cried. What did I say? Nothing seemed like enough, so I just held her and kissed the top of her hair.
She only gave herself a few moments to cry before she shifted out of my arms.
My hands hovered beside her elbows, ready to catch her in case she crumpled to her knees. But I should have known better. Ilsa wasn’t the crumpling type.
She wiped her face dry and sniffled, squaring her shoulders as she bent to pick up her bags.
“I’ve got them.” I snatched them up, then followed her to the Bronco.
As I loaded the rest into the back, Ilsa climbed in and slammed the door too hard.
The furious set of her jaw said we were done with the sad portion of the afternoon. Those tears would likely return. This was the type of violation that would haunt her for years. But if she wanted to be mad right now, I’d work with mad.
I was fucking mad myself.
Where my anger was a hot, boiling fury, hers was an icy, silent wrath. The kind of fury that chilled me to the bone.
The person who did this had better pray I got to them before she did.
Neither of us spoke on the drive to town, and it took the entire ride for her fists to loosen, her jaw to unclench.
The lights were on in the house as I pulled into the garage—Spencer’s practice must have finished early.
“Tomorrow, I’ll find another place to stay,” she said.
I parked and shut off the Bronco, not bothering with a reply.