Présentation de l'éditeur In the frozen reaches of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, fierce winter storms can hit without notice. In the white opacity of one such blizzard, Norman Haas simply walks away from his prison work detail without detection. After agonizing days of blistering cold, Norman finds himself at the farmhouse of a lonely middle-aged woman who gives him temporary shelter while keeping him at a comfortable distance with her late husband’s shotgun. When she tries to turn him in, he escapes again. Thus begins a riveting story of Norman’s journey back to his past, back to the woman he loved who betrayed him, back to the brother who helped put him away, and back to a dangerous web of family allegiances, deceptions, and intrigue. On Norman’s trail is Del Maki, the hard-working sheriff of Yellow Dog Township, a fork in the road on the way to Canada. Cold takes us deep into an intricate, fascinating tale, where love, greed, and the promise of a last chance compel six people toward a chilling and inevitable reckoning. Extrait Chapter 1 Liesl Tiomenen saw the man from her kitchen window. It was snowing so hard that he was barely visible, standing at the edge of the woods. Staring toward the house, he kept his arms folded so his hands were clamped under his armpits. He wore a soiled canvas coat and blue trousers, but no hat. His stillness reminded her of the deer that often came into the yard to eat the carrots and apples she left for them. Liesl went out into the shed and took Harold's .30-.30 Winchester carbine down off the rack, then opened the back door, holding the rifle across her chest. The man didn't move. The north wind chilled the right side of her face; her fingers on the stock felt brittle. He was young, not more than twenty-five, and she could see that he was shivering. "All right," she said. "You can come inside." He began walking immediately, his legs lifting up out of the deep snow. "Slowly," she said. "And put your hands down at your sides where I can see them." He stopped and watched her. Then he dropped his arms to his sides and continued on toward the house. When the door opened, he had expected an old man or woman. Something about the house suggested that retired people lived there, the way it looked simple but well maintained. There were recent asphalt shingle patches on the roof, the wood storm windows had been freshly painted, and at least a cord of firewood was stacked against the shed. It was the smell of chimney smoke that had drawn him toward the house. But it was a woman, maybe in her early forties. She was tall, and her long blond hair was tied in a thick braid that hung over her left shoulder. Her hands were large, and one thumb appeared to be smeared with mud. When he reached her, she pointed the rifle at his chest and he stopped. She stared at him a moment, her blue eyes showing no panic or fear, only determination. He tried to quit shaking, but it only made it seem worse. "Okay," she said, stepping back into the shed. This close he could see that there was something odd about her mouth; her lips seemed out of kilter. When she spoke there was a kind of sag to the right side of her face, as though the muscles were lax. "Kitchen's that way." He stepped into the shed and opened the door to the warm, heavy air of the house. There was the smell of burning wood, and something else that he couldn't identify--a pleasant scent of damp earth. It made him light-headed, and his shaking only got worse. He fell to the floor, his palms slapping on the wood, and didn't move. Liesl walked around him, watching his face. There was a small cut beneath his eye, and twigs and pine needles were entangled in his short black hair. She poked him in the shoulder with the rifle, but he didn't respond. He wasn't faking. She went to the stove and turned on the burner beneath the teapot. From the pocket of her flannel shirt, she took out a pack of cigarettes. She held the tip to the flame for a moment, then raised the cigare
