Chapter 61: The Scapegoat
The concrete floor of the cellar radiated cold straight through the soles of Torin Sterling's boots, locking his ankles in an unyielding ache that traveled into his marrow. He sat on an overturned plastic milk crate near the dead water heater, his shoulders hunched, his arms locked across his ribcage as violent tremors racked his torso. Every exhalation left his mouth in a thick plume of gray steam that rose toward the exposed overhead plumbing, where the copper pipes had already split into jagged fissures under expanding ice.
A few yards away, in the corner where the stone foundation met the reinforced concrete wall, Nerida sat curled into a tight ball on a pile of moldering burlap bags.
She wore a goose down parka zipped to her chin, its red fabric stained wi
