A Cold Dark Place

"You'll sleep with the lights on after reading Gregg Olsen's
dark, atmospheric, page-turning suspense . . . if you can
sleep at all.

-Allison Brennan

"A stunning thrillera brutally dark story with a compelling, intricate plot."

-Alex Kava

"A page-turner.... Olsen brings his vast knowledge of the
criminal mind to the fictional stage, deftly combining just
the right mix of plot and characterization to create a work of
dark, gripping suspense"

-Anne Frasier

"This stunning thriller is the love child of Thomas Harris
and Laura Lippman, with all the thrills and the sheer gluedto-the-page artistry of both"

-Ken Bruen

"A great thriller that grabs you by the throat and takes you
into the dark, scary places of the heart and soul."

-Kay Hooper

"Complex mystery, crackling authenticity ... lurid, carefully distributed details ... will keep fans of crime fiction
hooked"

-Publishers Weekly

"Real narrative drive, a great setup, a gruesome crime, excellent exploitation of an other-worldly location, fine characters.... As good as it gets"

-Lee Child

"A taut thriller."

-Seattle Post-Intelligencer

"Wickedly clever! Gregg Olsen delivers a finely crafted,
genuinely twisted tale."

-Lisa Gardner

"Gregg Olsen's riveting debut is an outstanding addition to
the suspense genre."

-Allison Brennan

"An irresistible page-turner. A Wicked Snow grabs you on
page one, and never lets go until the heart-pounding finale."

-Kevin O'Brien

"A top-notch thriller. Unpredictable plot twists, realistic characterization, and an authentic portrayal of police procedure
make it a powerhouse of a book."

-Donna Anders

"Vivid, powerful, action-packed ... a terrific, tense thriller
that grips the reader."

-Midwest Book Review

"A Wicked Snow keeps the reader guessing and gulping from
the very first page. A very nifty brainteaser of a thriller."

-Jay Bonansinga

"Tight plotting drives the story in an almost hypnotic way.
Nerve-wracking suspense and a wonderful climax make this
debut a winner."

-Crimespree magazine

"Wonderful.... This one will keep you riveted and guessing,
right to the end"

-Seattle Mystery Bookshop

"Olsen writes a real grabber of a book. If you're smart, you'll
grab this one!"

-Linda Lael Miller

"I literally could not stop reading. "

-mysteryone.com

"A compelling story, tightly woven, that kept me riveted to
the final page"

-Susan R. Sloan

"Olsen blends solid storytelling with true-crime attention to
details. He has made the transition from true crime to fiction
effortlessly."

-Spinetingler magazine

"A Wicked Snow's plot-about a CSI investigator who's repressed a horrific crime from her childhood until it comes
back to haunt her-moves at a satisfyingly fast clip."

-Seattle Times

"Suspense-filled, believable."

-iloveamysterynewsletter.com

ALSO BY GREGG OLSEN

A Wicked Snow

The Deep Dark

If Loving You Is Wrong

Abandoned Prayers

BitterAlmonds

Mockingbird (Cruel Deception)

Starvation Heights

Confessions of an American Black Widow

GREGG OLSEN

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright (c) 2008 Gregg Olsen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022, attn: Special Sales Department; phone: 1-800-221-2647.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-1830-7 ISBN-10: 0-7860-1830-5 First printing: April 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America

For Kathrine

I wanted to take a moment to thank some of the people who
have been so amazing with their support and advice as I
wrote A Cold Dark Place. Naturally, none of it is possible
without the support and love of my family-Claudia, Morgan, and Marta.

Thanks also to the best thriller editor and the best thriller
agent in the business: Michaela Hamilton, executive editor
of Kensington, and Susan Raihofer of David Black Literary.
What a team you two make!

I'd like to acknowledge the writers that have been so
helpful to me recently. All of the Killer Year members and
friends have been great, but I especially want to spotlight JT
Ellison, Bill Cameron, and Sandra Ruttan for their wonderful support and partnership over the past year. My Killer Year
mentor, Allison Brennan, has no peer when it comes to writing pulse-pounding suspense and encouraging new (even old!)
authors.

Thanks to Kathrine Beck, Tina Marie Brewer, Charles
Turner, Bunny Kuhlman, and Matt Phelps for their muchappreciated guidance along the way.

There are many behind-the-scenes people who help shape
the final product that you now hold in your hand. I want to
publicly thank Lou Malcangi for his terrific cover design and
Diane Burke for her thoughtful copyediting. If I wore a hat,
I'd take it off to you!

Finally, to my readers. Thanks so much for following me
from true crime to fiction. Your c-mails, letters, and posts on
Crime Rant mean the world to me.

Women with transparent vinyl purses that exposed the
shredded remainders of coin wrappers stood in line. They
took deep breaths as the uniformed prison matron with icy
hands prepared to probe their bodies. Talc-dipped rubber
gloves snapped. It was humiliating in every sense of the word.
The matron, a woman with ashen skin, pencil-thin lips, and
with glasses on a cheap silver chain around her neck, knew
those waiting to leave the institution felt her power, her
supreme authority, and it made her smile. The women had
lined up to leave after a long day of tears and excuses in the
high school cafeteria milieu of the visiting room-a cavernous space of bolted-to-the-floor tables and fixed-position
chairs. The matron's husky voice intoned them to "cool their
jets" and "wait your turn or I'll have something to say about it."

And so the women lingered, each feeling violated and
angry. Having a husband, boyfriend, or brother inside the
razor-wire-trimmed walls of Bonneville Maximum Security
was bad enough. Being told with unfettered contempt by someone to wait your turn in the processing line was ptomaine
gravy over a bad slab of beef. And they had to eat it. Every
goddamned bite.

"Are you going to be a problem for me?" the matron asked,
her gray eyes as sharp as awls pitched firmly at the distressed
gaze of a young woman. The younger woman let out a measured sigh. She'd spent all day trying to tell her wannabedrug-lord husband that she was thinking of moving back
east to Indiana. She wanted to be free. All of them did.

"Uh? Me?" the younger woman answered. She was barely
twenty and still wore her chestnut hair in a ponytail, but she
held a kind of weariness on her face that indicated she'd seen
it all. She faked a smile of recognition at the matron. She knew
when someone had it in for her. It had been her life since she
left home. Ran away. Met the wrong man. Trashed her future.
She could hear her mother's words echo at that moment. You've
thrown away everything your father and I had hoped for you.
You screwed up, Donita. You really botched it.

"Yes, you, Ponytail," the matron said, nodding in her direction. The rest of the women felt relief wash over them.
Good, the bitch found someone else to bother. She motioned
for her to step forward. "I need you to spread your legs. You've
done it before, I'm sure. Wider."

The young woman silently seethed, but she acquiesced.
She had no choice.

"You know, if I can't get my mitts between your thighs,
either you're gonna have to go on a diet or you're gonna have
to practice your splits in the back room. I don't like you, I
don't trust you, and I think you're carrying some contraband
on your person. I just feel it."

The back room was a dimly lit hospital-style space where
women were forced to endure indignities based on their physiology. Flat on their backs, legs apart, feet stuck in metal
stirrups.

"I'll do better," she said, all the while wondering what it
would be like if she'd been an actual prisoner there, not a
lowly visitor?

The altercation caught the attention of a chubby-faced
woman in the back of the line. Her strawberry-blond shag
had matted unflatteringly to her forehead. Her pulse quickened, but she kept her affect blank. She didn't want to stand
out and she didn't want a trip to the back room for any kind
of exam. She carried something so precious, so vital, that its
discovery would ruin everything.

Be cool, Ponytail's taking the heat. Thank you, Jesus.

She concealed her prize in a place she hoped no one would
dare probe. Inside. Personal. Private. Besides she knew the
matron only groped because she got off on it. No one was
looking for someone to take much of anything out of here ...
they mostly watched for contraband coming in to the visiting room.

The matron fixed her eyes on the strawberry blonde with
the secret. Her eyes held her with unyielding grip. She waited
a beat.

"You can go," she said.

The woman with the secret acknowledged the command
and started walking in the direction of the lockers in which
she had stored her coat and car keys before going under the
arbor of razor wire, through the gate, to the visiting room.

"Wait a minute," the matron said.

It felt like her heart stopped beating. She was going to
die. Going to be caught. Adrenaline kicked her ticker back
into play. She's going to take me in the back room. She
going to ruin everything.