Page 17 of A Killing Cold

I’ve misunderstood the point of this exercise, I realize with a touch of irritation at myself as Alexis leans a hip against the counter. It’s not the baking after all.

Rose takes a sip of her wine and pins me with her gaze. “So, Theo. You and Connor met at a party, is that right?” she says.

I bob my head. Alexis props her elbows on the countertop, leaning her whole body over. I can see down her blouse—see the sharp ridges of her sternum and ribs where the skin pulls tight. She’s so thin her chest almost looks sunken. “She already sat through an interrogation last night, Mom. Cut her some slack,” she says, and winks at me. I wonder if you have to practice winking in order for it to look natural.

“I don’t mind,” I say. “I’m an open book.” I don’t know why these things come out of my mouth.

“Really? Connor says you’re quite mysterious,” Rose replies. My teeth feel glued together. She chuckles. “Don’t look so stricken. I think he likes being intrigued. And I’ll admit, I’m intrigued, too. Connor’s never introduced me to any of his girlfriends—even Darcy, and they were together, what, two years?”

“Eighteen months,” Alexis demurs.

Rose makes a light noise, a sort of verbal shrug. “In any case, here you are on the mountain. It’s remarkable.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“We do not generally allow casual romantic partners to join us at Idlewood,” Louise says. She, too, has a glass of wine, though she hasn’t touched it that I’ve seen. “Rose, you and Liam were together for three years before he brought you, isn’t that right?”

“It’s a bit like a proposal in its own right,” Rose says. “You get engaged and get your invitation to the mountain.”

“Well, we are engaged,” I point out. Her lips thin, so briefly that I could almost pretend it didn’t happen. My pulse is beating quickly at my throat, like I’m looking into the teeth of a wolf, not just having a friendly conversation surrounded by pie ingredients.

One of these people might have sent me those texts. Louise? Surely not—or could she have had someone send them for her, told some employee to handle things? Rose? She’s only just met me, and she’s obviously skeptical, but openly hostile? Could it be Alexis after all, covering for it with her friendliness?

I’m being paranoid. But I can’t help it. What if one of them knows?

My hands have been still too long. I reach for my wine. It’s oversweet; it turns my stomach.

“I brought Paloma up here when we’d only been together a few weeks,” Alexis says. I know she’s trying to help, but being argumentative is just extending this horrific line of conversation.

Louise scoffs. “Because all you teenagers had license to invite a friend for the summer retreat. We simply didn’t expect that any of you would be sleeping with them.”

Annoyance—or maybe anger—flashes briefly over Alexis’s face, but she doesn’t push the point. “We should chill the dough, right?” she asks.

“Toss those peels out first,” Louise directs her. Alexis takes the metal bowl we’ve designated for the purpose over to the pullout cabinet that houses the garbage cans. “The trash is full,” she notes as she chucks the peels in with the organic waste.

“I’ll have Olena take it out. Where is that girl?” Louise asks.

“I’ll take it,” I say immediately, eager for the excuse to escape for at least a minute or two.

“That’s not necessary,” Louise says.

I shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“The bins are straight out back, behind the cinder block wall,” Alexis says, pointing in the right general direction. Before Mrs. Dalton can object again, I scoot in to grab the bag. My sleeves are still pushed up from when I washed my hands, and as I tie the top of the bag, Rose leans forward, a little frown sketched over her lips as she examines my tattoo. My first instinct is to yank down my sleeve, but I turn my wrist instead, giving her a better view. She touches my forearm lightly, as if to fix my arm in place for her examination.

“A dragonfly,” she says with the faint note of a question.

“Kind of a personal symbol of mine,” I say, though a symbol of what, I could not explain. I’m never sure if the dragonfly in my dreams is a protector or a warning—or an ill omen.

“I see,” she says, with an expression bordering on distaste. Her hand drops. Abruptly she turns away. “Louise, let me help you with that,” she says, stepping quickly away and leaving me to furrow my brow. Maybe she’s not a fan of tattoos. Or dragonflies.

I have to head to the front to collect my boots. When I’m halfway there, a flutter of laughter floats down the hall. I turn my head, and I can just see Olena. Her whole body is canted back, someone’s arm around her waist to hold her up. She’s bending away from him but laughing, the movement elongating her neck, baring her throat, and Trevor leans in to kiss it. I stand there, frozen. He looks up. Sees me. He grins.

I hurry away.

In my haste, I step out with only my thick sweater to ward off the chill. Instead of cutting back through the house again, I tramp around the side of the lodge. A squat wall of cinder blocks hides the dumpster from view of the house. I deposit the bag and lower the lid slowly, not willing to break the quiet of the forest with a clang.

I have to go back inside. I can’t. Mist plumes from my lips. Out here, I can breathe, but the cold air holds a razor’s edge that nicks my throat. Inside is warmth and the scent of cinnamon, smiles and laughter, so why do I feel safer with the cold seeping into my bones?

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