When a note with four cryptic words appears on his doorstep, Alaska P.I. Sidney Reed is sure it's a clue to his wife Molly's tragic death. He's even more convinced when he finds red roses left on Molly's grave and a man in a rusty van watching his apartment. Cryptic lines in Molly's diary hint at a dark secret. What was she so keen to keep hidden? Did it get her killed? In this, the final chapter in the Sidney Reed "Killogy," the troubled detective confronts a brutal winter storm, debilitating frostbite, corporate thugs and a psychopathic killer to answer the question that haunts him day and night. But even if he does, will it make the nightmares stop?
When a note with four cryptic words appears on his doorstep, Alaska P.I. Sidney Reed is sure it's a clue to his wife Molly's tragic death. He's even more convinced when he finds red roses left on Molly's grave and a man in a rusty van watching his apartment. Cryptic lines in Molly's diary hint at a dark secret. What was she so keen to keep hidden? Did it get her killed? In this, the final chapter in the Sidney Reed "Killogy," the troubled detective confronts a brutal winter storm, debilitating frostbite, corporate thugs and a psychopathic killer to answer the question that haunts him day and night. But even if he does, will it make the nightmares stop?
Monday, December 21—one year later
I lay on my back, in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Sweat dotted my forehead, welled up in my armpits. I twisted my forty-five-year-old body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and inhaled the stale apartment air. My foot throbbed.
One more sleepless night.
The rustling of linen pulled my head around. The meager light revealed a vague lump in the bed. My girlfriend’s chestnut hair spilled out one end of the sheet and across the pillow. Her sleepy voice mumbled, “What time is it?”
I glanced at the red letters on the digital clock. “Four thirty-three.”
“Christ,” she muttered.
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Come back to bed.”
“I love the sound of your voice.”
“Another nightmare?”
I didn’t answer.
Yawning, she propped herself up on one elbow. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time reading her diary—”
“That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“What, then?”
“Go back to sleep, okay?”
“Whatever.” Her head disappeared beneath the sheets.
I yanked open the nightstand drawer, took out the pink leather-bound diary and stood on shaky legs. A sliver of pain sliced through my left foot, something I’d been noticing a lot lately. I shuffled into the kitchen and liberated a bottle of Alaskan Amber—my favorite—from the fridge. Beer and diary in hand, I padded into the living room, switched on the thrift-store floor lamp, and plopped down on my worse-for-wearthrift-store couch.
A few feet away, in a battle-scarred rocking chair, pale green eyes peered out from a black tousle of fur belonging to Priscilla, the cat I’d inherited from my late wife and by whom I hoped someday to be adopted. She blinked and closed her eyes with an expression that, roughly translated from Cat into English, said, Oh, it’s you.
I twisted the cap off the chilled bottle and leafed through the pages of carefully penned entries. This had become my daily ritual since I found the book at the bottom of a cardboard box in my closet several months before. I was searching for answers, hoping to one day sleep in peace again.
Molly’s diary was sparse. She had often gone weeks without making a notation. Most of her diary entries were comments on the weather and its effect on her mood. Things like dreary and cold, wish I could stay in bed all day. Or brief jottings about things we’d done together. Those entries had thinned over time as our lives drifted apart.
A few of her jottings suggested I’d never really known her at all.
Ignoring the condensation from the cold bottle dripping on my boxers, I flipped to the back, where a red sticky tab—one of several—protruded from the side edge. Not for the first time, I read the entry for December 4: “Snowy cold morning. Sidney is already out the door on another surveillance job. Can’t bring myself to tell him about my new job as I fear he’ll be furious. It’s given me new life all the same. Thank God for G.”
I stared at the page, waiting for a revelation. Some new insight. When none came, I flipped to the next tab, the one marking the last entry in her diary, under December 23: “I am content that I have done right and am not afraid. I hope he’ll be proud of me. I want him to be.”
I slammed the journal shut, swigged some beer, and leaned back against the cushion. To find meaning in her life, Molly had volunteered to work for an environmental group in Wasilla. She seemed to find the work rewarding, but what was this business about a “new job?” Whydidn’t she want to tell me about it? And who was G?
I polished off my beer and returned to the bedroom. Maria Maldonado lay on her back, face turned away, the sheet rising and falling with every breath she took. We’d met four months ago. I was working on a case, my first since Molly’s death. A reporter for the local newspaper, Maria had chased me for a story, and I’d chased her for a date. Whether out of loneliness or desperation, I wasn’t sure.
Nor was it entirely clear why she was attracted to someone carrying
enough baggage to fill Prince William Sound. I sensed she had secrets
Winter Kill is the third riveting novel in author R.J. Norgard’s suspenseful Sidney Reed mystery series and features a grieving widower trying to come to terms with his wife’s supposed suicide when he receives an anonymous note that appears to support his belief that she was murdered. It has been almost a year since private investigator Sidney Reed found his wife’s lifeless body in their home and, although he’s consulted a psychiatrist to help him move past his heartfelt denial that she took her own life, he still retains his doubts.
The guilt he feels for not being home that night has just about destroyed him; the drinking and nightmares have taken their toll. He’s shuttered his PI business, though he’s been dragged into a few cases; nonetheless, the last of which almost killed him. He’s still suffering the aftermath of nearly freezing to death, as the toes on his left foot are more damaged than he wants to believe or seek medical care for. His lifeline has been Maria Maldonado, a local reporter quickly making a name for herself as an investigative journalist. However, if he doesn’t start dealing more productively with his grief, she may, too, be lost to him.
Just as Sidney is beginning to think maybe everyone is right and Molly really had done the unthinkable, he receives a cryptic message left at his apartment that galvanizes him back into action and out of his destructive depression. But as he delves into her life during the days leading up to that awful night, Sidney realizes he really didn’t know his wife at all.
Main character Sidney Reed is a damaged man, emotionally and physically, and inaction is not his friend. As he continues to dwell on Molly’s death, he has begun to alienate everyone in his circle who has supported him during the previous year. Everyone wants him to accept the official police ruling of suicide and move on. However, the only way Sidney will ever do this is if he investigates her death himself and either finds confirmation of the verdict or uncovers concrete proof of a different explanation. As he digs, he comes to the harsh realization that while not guilty of her death, he is complicit in neglecting their relationship and that Molly had secrets she was hiding from him.
The plot kicks off quickly with the suspenseful discovery that Sidney is under surveillance by parties unknown. However, his girlfriend Maria is involved in a big story with dangerous implications, so it is unclear which of the two is their actual target. The local private-eye community is naturally small but close-knit, and the cooperation and professional rivalries in action were an interesting and important aspect of the story.
The Alaskan setting is also critical to the tale. The great distances between witnesses and suspects keep the protagonist on the road and often out of reach of help, as the remote locations have spotty or non-existent cell service.
The story begins on the winter solstice, and the area is well into the Alaskan winter with temperatures consistently below zero and snowstorms always in the forecast. The author’s descriptions of the limited daylight and darkening, snow-laden skies vividly establish a brooding, expectant, and suspenseful atmosphere that becomes as much a character in the story as some of the people.
As Sidney follows his instincts, ugly truths begin to take form, and while he may get the answers he wants, they may not bring the closure and comfort he craves. Although this is the third Sidney Reed book, it can be read and enjoyed as a standalone novel. However, the previous books in the series were excellent and shouldn’t be overlooked. I recommend WINTER KILL to readers of traditional mysteries and tales of suspense.