Page 83 of A Killing Cold

“Olena!” Trevor says, falling to one knee beside me. “We need to get help. Get her warm. We have to…”

I look at him, waiting. He’s panting, frantic. And then his mouth closes, the air going out of him all at once.

I turn my gaze back to Olena, though it’s the last place I want to look. Her hair is frozen to the side of her face with a mixture of blood and snow, and the ragged lip of a wound protrudes beneath it. I look back, farther down the slope. There’s a rock there, the size of two fists pressed together, one edge sharp. It’s dark with what might be blood.

I think of the sound I heard last night, stumbling back to White Pine in the dark. Like a bird or a rabbit crying out in pain.

I brush hair from Olena’s face with my fingertips. Her empty eyes stare into mine, and I feel like I’ve been here before.

Here, in the cold.

Here, with a body that has long since lost its warmth.

With eyes staring into mine.

I’ve been coming and going from Dragonfly—Mr. Vance saw me. He told people. Told Nick. And this path—we’ve veered off course, farther south than the direct path Olena would have taken if she was going the shortest route. With all the snow, Olena must have been cutting over to the cars and the lake, to get to the easier path around the lake edge.

She was walking in the direction of White Pine. In her red coat, the same color as mine.

We looked the same in the dark, Olena and I.

“What happened?” Trevor asks, as if I know. As if I can explain it.

I look up at him, voice perfectly level, and say, “She fell.”

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“What do we do?” Trevor asks. He looks at me helplessly. “What do we do?”

You would think that I was utterly calm, to look at me. “Stay here,” I tell him, firm and assured. “I’ll get help.”

I walk away before he can object. My mind charts the path back to White Pine. To the keys, to the car, down the mountain through drifts of snow. I might make it.

Not without Connor.

I follow my own footprints. Back up the steps of the lodge, inside, not bothering to remove my shoes. I’ll track snow all over the gleaming hardwoods, but so what? Let it seep in. Let it warp the wood and let the Daltons tear it all up and start over again.

Connor’s voice floats toward me. He’s in the living room. I follow the sound, that calm that is not calm at all keeping me steady. I expect to find him with Louise, but it’s Rose in there with him, the two of them standing close together. Her arms are crossed lightly, her head bent, everything about her pose emanating discomfort and defeat. Connor has one hand on his hip, the other at the back of his neck, no happier than she is. My winter boots thump gracelessly as I enter, and he turns.

“Theo?” he says, brow creasing. “Where did you go?”

“I need to talk to you.”

The line between his eyebrows deepens. He touches his mother’s shoulder once, ajust a momentgesture, and then hurries over to me, dropping his voice. “What is it? You look—”

“We need to leave,” I say under my breath, quietly enough Rose won’t hear. “Now.”

“We will,” Connor says. “We need to talk to Mr. Vance and then—”

“Not Vance. Just the two of us, and we need to do it right away,” I say. “Listen to me carefully and do not make a scene. Olena is dead.”

His face goes blank with shock. I take hold of his hand, squeeze hard. He can’t freak out.

“Connor, we need to leavenow,” I say again, but at that moment the front door slams. Heavy footsteps stagger into the foyer, and I curse under my breath as a voice calls out.

“Mom? Mom!”

“Trevor?” Rose calls back, startled, and glances at me with a frightened expression, and then Trevor is staggering into the room. His face is bloodless, eyes wild.

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