Page 28 of A Killing Cold

I nod, shoo him away. By the time I extract myself from the warm cocoon of the blankets, he’s on his way out the door. I draw back the curtain to watch him go. The light filters down through the boughs of the trees, making the snow glint. I watch until he vanishes.

I try not to think about the photograph. I tidy up what we left out last night, make myself breakfast, pour another cup of coffee, clean again. I check my phone, wondering if perhaps some ghost of signal has allowed emails and messages to get through, but there’s nothing.

“This is ridiculous,” I say to myself the fourth time I skirt around the table, avoiding the book with its illicit bookmark.

Yesterday was strange. I was caught up in my emotions, not thinking clearly. I saw a photograph of some random little girl and I got an odd notion in my head. The moment I take that photograph out, I tell myself, this whole thing will seem foolish. She probably looks nothing like me.

I step briskly over to the table. I open the book and pull the photograph out in one fluid movement, flipping it onto the table.

And there she is. The little girl looks up at me. Brown hair. Braids. Sharp little chin. Lots of children look like that.

My fingertips trail along the line of her face, down to her neck. There are two tiny dots along her throat, right above her collarbone. Birthmarks. I missed them before. I touch the matching marks on my own neck.

I shudder, sitting down.

It was supposed to be a dream. Gone with the rising sun.

“Who are you?” I whisper, searching my own memories for the answer, but there’s nothing.

A keening wail breaks through the mire of my thoughts. I startle, nearly knocking over the wineglass. A child is crying outside—and there’s only one child here. I rush over to the window, the photograph still in my hand. Sebastian is standing outside, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a thin cotton shirt. He’s crying, scrubbing at his face with his little fists.

“What the fuck?” I manage, frozen in place—and then common sense catches up and I pull on my boots. I throw my coat on, grabbing a blanket from the back of the armchair as I head out. I have the presence of mind to shove the photograph into my coat pocket as I stride to the trail.

He doesn’t even see me. He’s staring off into the distance, crying in hiccupping sobs.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say, trying for soothing.

He twists around. A river of snot runs from his nose. His eyelashes are all gummed together with tears. My stomach twists with fleeting panic. How long has he been like this?

“It’s freezing out here!” I throw the blanket around him. At least he’s wearing shoes—not boots, but little tennis shoes with dinosaurs on the toes. “Where did you come from? Why are you all alone?” I ask him, but he’s crying too hard to answer.

Olena’s supposed to be watching him, isn’t she? I look around, rubbing his arms. No sign of her.

“We need to get you back to your cabin,” I say. If someone’s looking for him, surely that’s where they’ll go. “It’s okay, little dude, we’ll get you back to your mommies.”

This promise at last seems to calm him down. The wails stop, and he looks up at me with those achingly perfect brown eyes. I smile in a way I hope is reassuring.

I stick out my hand. He lifts both of his in a very clear demand, and I sigh. “Okay. I’ll carry you.” I grunt as I haul him up. He burrows against me, his face swiping wetly along the curve of my neck as he finds a comfortable spot. I swallow down my distaste and resettle the blanket.

I listen for voices calling out his name. Nothing. No Olena running around frantically. I cut straight through toward Red Fox, relying on memory, and regret it when I have to wade through a drift of snow up to my calves, each step made more laborious by the ungainly weight of a now-quiet three-year-old.

“What were you doing out here?” I ask him.

“I was playing,” he says. “I was looking for foxes.” It comes outwooking fuh fot-ses, which even I have to admit is adorable.

“I think maybe no more looking for foxes without a grown-up, okay?” I say.

“Otay.”

Goddamn, he’s cute. I was always supposed to love kids. Beth wanted nothing more than one of those huge families, big enough that all the older girls look after the babies. Instead it was just me. I had cousins, of course. Dozens of them. Most of them lived in Idaho, though, and the ones that were closer were all older than me. It never stopped Beth from pointing out babies to me, offering me up for babysitting, telling me what a wonder it was going to be when I had my own children. She would talk in a disturbing amount of detail about what it would be like, having a baby grow inside of me, the way it never had in her.It’s God’s miracle, she would say.

We’re at Red Fox. I knock on the door, balancing Sebastian on my hip. There’s no answer. I try the knob but it won’t turn.

“What are you doing?”

The voice brings me around fast enough that Sebastian squeaks and wraps his arms around my neck. It’s Nick, Connor’s uncle. He standswith his hands in the pockets of a black wool coat, a scarf around his neck. He’s got a lighter complexion than his brother or his nephew, black hair peppered gray, the same square jaw but without the soft cheeks to gentle it. He looks like his father.

“I’m—I—” I stammer. I haven’t done anything wrong, but my mind is rifling through the last five minutes looking for things I could get blamed for.

---