Page 62 of A Killing Cold

“Well,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning, then? To go hunting.”

“Hunting. Right.” I had forgotten—lost track of the slow progression of days, of where I am in time altogether. “I’ll be here,” I say firmly, knowing that Louise hears. Magnus steps aside, and I walk past him.

I can feel both of them watching me all the way to the door.

29

When I get to the cabin, Connor is gone. When he returns, he doesn’t ask me what Louise wanted, and I don’t ask him where he’s been. He’s in a strange mood the whole day, one moment seemingly unable to speak to me, the next reaching out as I pass to seize my hand and hold it, not meeting my eyes, for long seconds before he relinquishes his grip.

No invitation comes for dinner. We eat what’s left in the fridge instead, making only tepid conversation.

The next morning, I wake up alone. I sit up, hand reaching for the empty space beside me. I never sleep longer than Connor. He’s never managed to get out of bed without rousing me, but he’s gone. I get out of bed quickly, combing my hair with my fingers as I walk out into the main room. Connor is there. He’s dressed already in warm clothes, drinking a mug of coffee. His boots are by the door, his coat over the back of the kitchen chair beside him. He’s getting ready to go out.

“What time is it?” I ask, shaking off the shadows of strange dreams.

“We have a few minutes. I set your stuff out.” He nods over to the bench, where my boots and coat are waiting. I tense. “You should get dressed and grab something to eat.” He sounds normal; he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“I talked to Granddad yesterday,” he says. “I told him. Some of it. I told him it wasn’t your fault, everything that happened.”

“Is that what you really think?” I ask.

“I think… I think I have no idea what you’ve been through,” Connor says. It sounds too much likeI don’t actually know youto bring any relief.

“I didn’t set out to lie to you.”

A tendon at his jaw flares. I stand in the tortured silence wishing he would just say the words—it’s okay, I forgive you, I understand, I love you, it doesn’t matter.But of course it matters. A thing like this, it needs time. The one thing we’ve never bothered with, in this relationship.

Connor holds out my coat. I slide my arms into the sleeves, one by one, and when I turn, he zips it up until his fingers bump the underside of my chin.

“Better get moving,” he says, and so we do.

Magnus and Nick are waiting for us. They have a pair of four-wheelers with them, built for the snow, with gear packed on the back. Nick carries a metal thermos that steams, the smell of coffee wafting out of it. He holds it out to offer me a swig. I shake my head; he shrugs. This qualifies as a conversation, this early in the morning.

“We’ll be splitting up,” Magnus says without preamble when we arrive. “Connor, you’ll go with Nick. Been a while since you were out so do what he says. Miss Scott, you’ll be with me.”

Unpleasant surprise twists in my gut, but I nod.

“This many people tramping through the woods, we’re not likely to get anything. More of a hike with weapons than a hunt,” Magnus says. He doesn’t sound too upset about it. “Could get lucky, though. If you don’t just yammer the whole time and scare off everything within a mile radius.”

I’m provided with a vest—bright orange and reflective. Magnus lets me get settled on the four-wheeler before he starts it up. I look over my shoulder at Connor. He’s watching me, but as soon as I catch his eye, he turns to examine the gear on the back of the other vehicle.

For a while, the sound of the motor drowns out any need for conversation. Magnus takes us well away from the cabins. The guys trail behind for a stretch before they break off. Not long after that, Magnus stops and cuts the engine.

“You said you’ve used rifles in the past, is that right?” Magnus asks.

“Only a handful of times,” I confess.

He grunts. “A bow’s trickier. Which is why some folks don’t botherwith them. This time of year we get poachers up here. Mr. Vance does the rounds, tries to scare them off, but I’m pretty sure there have been a few lurking around.” I give him an alarmed look and he chuckles. “Don’t worry. They might be skirting the law, but they’re still only hunting deer. Now, I’m not too worried about bagging anything today. Plenty of opportunity for you to practice,” he tells me. He looks around at the clearing we’ve come to. “Good enough spot. We can waste a few arrows teaching you how to shoot straight.”

With dawn only beginning to nudge the horizon, I sink about twenty arrows into trees, bushes, and snowdrifts, few of them the ones I was aiming at. Each draw makes the burn on my hand twinge, but I refuse to complain. Magnus criticizes my stance, the angle of my arms, the direction of my gaze. He stands five feet away at all times, never draws close, never touches me, but the weight of his scrutiny is claustrophobic.

I find I most enjoy the moment when I’ve pulled the arrow back. The smooth glide of the string through the pulleys hardly registers as effort, but in that ease the entire violence of the release is concealed.

At last Magnus declares me good enough for the time being—or else is simply out of patience. He directs us along a snow-laden track. I don’t imagine I’ll be shooting at anything living in any case.

Magnus is a man of few words. He moves carefully, quietly. I go where he directs me.

What must be an hour since we left, he looks up from where he’s crouched down, deer tracks scattered out in front of him. They’re not fresh, last night’s dusting cupped in each depression, yet he’s lingered here. “Connor told me a bit about what happened to you,” he says.

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