And then what had happened? What would make a family abandon their meal and leave it to harden to ice?

Elaine grabbed Doug’s arm. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

They all went dead-still. Only then did Maura hear the creaking, like footsteps moving across the floor.

Slowly, Doug moved into the hall and toward the second doorway. Holding his lamp high, he stepped into the room, revealing another bedroom.

All at once Elaine laughed. “God, we’re idiots!” She pointed to the closet, where a door was creaking back and forth, propelled by gusts that blew in the open window. In relief, she sank onto one of the two twin beds. “An empty house, that’s all this is! And we’ve managed to scare the hell out of ourselves.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Arlo.

“Oh right. Like you weren’t freaking out.”

Maura closed the window and stared out at the night. She saw no lights, no sign that anyone else in the world was alive except them. On the desk was a stack of school workbooks. Independent Home Study Program. Level 4. She flipped open the cover to a page of spelling exercises. The pupil’s name had been printed on the inside cover: Abigail Stratton. One of the two girls in the photo, she thought. This is their room. But gazing around at the walls, she saw little to indicate that preteen girls lived here. There were no movie posters, no photos of teen idols. Only two twin beds, neatly made up, and those schoolbooks.

“I think we can now say this house is all ours,” said Doug. “We’ve just got to sit tight until someone comes looking for us.”

“What if no one does?” asked Elaine.

“Someone’s bound to miss us. We had reservations at that lodge.”

“They’ll just think we stood them up. And we’re not due back at work till after Thanksgiving. That’s nine days from now.”

Doug looked at Maura. “You’re supposed to fly home tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, but no one knows I came with you, Doug. They won’t know where to start looking.”

“Why the hell would anyone look here?” Arlo pointed out. “This is the middle of nowhere! It’ll be spring before the road clears, which means months could go by before they find us.” Arlo sank on the twin bed, next to Elaine, and dropped his head in his hands. “Jesus, we are fucked.”

Doug looked around at his dispirited companions. “Well, I’m not panicking. We have food and firewood, so we won’t starve and we won’t freeze.” He gave Arlo a hearty slap on the back. “Come on, man. It’s an adventure. It could be a lot worse.”

“How much worse?” said Arlo.

No one answered. No one wanted to.

BY THE TIME DETECTIVE JANE RIZZOLI ARRIVED AT THE SCENE, A group of bystanders had already gathered, attracted by the flashing lights of the Boston PD cruisers, and by the uncanny instinct that always seemed to draw crowds to places where bad things had happened. Violence gave off its version of pheromones, and these people had caught its scent and now stood pressed up against the U-Store-More chain-link fence, hoping for a glimpse of what had brought the police into their neighborhood.

Jane parked her car and stepped out, buttoning her coat against the cold. This morning the rain had stopped, but with clearing skies had come dropping temperatures, and she realized she hadn’t brought any warm gloves, only the latex ones. She wasn’t ready for winter yet, hadn’t put the ice scraper and snow brush in her car. But tonight, winter was definitely blowing in.

She walked through the gate and onto the property, checking in with the patrolman who stood guard. The bystanders were watching her, their camera phones out and snapping photos. Hey, Ma, check out my shots of the crime scene. Honestly, people, Jane thought. Get a life. She could feel those cameras trained on her as she walked across icy pavement, toward storage locker 22. Three well-bundled patrolmen stood outside the unit, hands buried in their pockets, caps pulled low against the cold.

“Hey, Detective,” one of them called out.

“It’s in there?”

“Yeah. Detective Frost is already inside with the manager.” The cop reached down for the handle and yanked up the aluminum door. It rattled open, and in the cluttered space beyond, Jane saw her partner, Barry Frost, standing with a middle-aged woman. The woman wore a white down jacket that was so voluminous, she looked like she had pillows strapped to her chest.

Frost introduced them. “This is Dottie Dugan, manager of U-Store-More. And this is my partner, Detective Jane Rizzoli,” he said.

They all kept their hands in their pockets; it was too cold for standard courtesies.

“You’re the one who called it in?” Jane asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I was just telling Detective Frost here how shocked I was when I found out what was in here.”

A gust of wind sent scraps of paper fluttering across the concrete floor. Jane said to the patrolman standing outside, “Can you close the door?”

They waited until the aluminum door rattled down, shutting them into a space that was just as frigid as outside, but at least shielded from the wind. A single bare lightbulb swung above them, and the harsh glow emphasized the bags under Dottie Dugan’s eyes. Even Frost, who was only in his late thirties, looked strained and middle-aged in that light, his face anemically pale. Cluttering the space was a collection of shabby furniture. Jane saw a frayed couch covered with garishly floral fabric, a stained Naugahyde lounger, and various wooden chairs, none of them matching. There was so much furniture that it was stacked ten feet high along the walls.

“She always paid on time,” said Dottie Dugan. “Every October, I’d get a check for the whole year’s rent. And this is one of our bigger units, a ten-by-thirty. It’s not exactly cheap.”

“Who is the renter?” asked Jane.

“Betty Ann Baumeister,” Frost answered. He flipped through his notes, reading the info he’d already jotted down. “She rented this unit for eleven years. Address was in Dorchester.”

“Was?”

“She’s dead,” said Dottie Dugan. “I heard it was a heart attack. Happened awhile back, but I didn’t find out about it until I tried collecting the rent. It’s the first time she didn’t send me a check, so I knew something was wrong. I tried to locate her relatives, but all I found was some senile old uncle down in South Carolina. That’s where she came from. Had a southern accent, really soft and pretty. Thought it was such a shame that she moved all the way up here to Boston, just to die alone. That’s what I thought then, anyway.” She gave a rueful laugh and shuddered inside her puffy jacket. “You just can never tell, can you? Sweet-looking southern lady like that. I felt really guilty about auctioning off her stuff, but I couldn’t just let it sit here.” She looked around. “Not that it’s worth much.”

“Where did you find it?” asked Jane.

“Against that wall back there. That’s where the electrical outlet is.” Dottie Dugan led them through the canyon of stacked chairs to a large chest freezer. “I figured she was storing expensive meats or something. I mean, why bother to keep this thing running all year round, unless you’ve got something worth freezing?” She paused and looked at Jane and Frost. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon get out of your way. I don’t really want to see it again.” She turned and retreated toward the door.

Jane and Frost exchanged glances. It was Jane who lifted the lid. Cold mist rose from the freezer, obscuring what lay within. Then the mist cleared and the contents came into view.

Shrouded in clear plastic, a man’s face stared up at them, icy rime coating his brows and lashes. His nude body had been folded into a fetal position, his knees crammed up against his chest to better fit in the small space. Although his cheeks were parched with freezer burn, his skin was unwrinkled, his youthful flesh preserved like a good cut of meat, wrapped and frozen and put aside for later use.