Page 9 of A Killing Cold

There’s a map on the wall behind me—Idlewood. The year in the corner reads1983. Elevation lines chart the shape of the mountain. Trees blanket most of the map. The pond—labeled hereIdlewood Lake, with more optimism than accuracy—is dead center, with the grand lodge above it and five cabins scattered here and there, each far enough away from the others for privacy. The corner of the map is scorched. I think of what Mrs. Dalton said—about the old lodge being damaged in a fire.

Damaged, not destroyed. This isn’t a family that sees something flawed and fixes it up. No. When something breaks, it needs to be gotten rid of, in order for something better to take its place.

So I must not let them see the ways in which I’m broken.

4

I leave the bathroom with my shoulders squared, wishing it felt less like marching to war. In the foyer, a man is in the process of hanging up a heavy winter coat. I slow as I approach. He has short-cropped hair and a craggy face. It might have once had the same boyish appeal as Connor’s, but it’s settled into something more severe. The click of my heels alerts him to my presence. He turns—and freezes.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands.

I blink, but don’t falter. I step forward, sticking out my hand, and smile with all my teeth. “You must be Connor’s uncle, Nick. I’m Theo. It’s so nice to meet you.”

I don’t know my real name, first or last, as hard as I have tried to remember. Sometimes I think I detect an echo of it, my head twitching around in recognition, but there’s no pattern in the syllables that trigger that little twinge of familiarity. When I was young, I tried on different names for a day or two at a time, hoping one of them would fit. Miranda and Abigail and Evelyn, Ann and Lia and Tara—none of them were me.

The Scotts called me Dora. Theodora Hosanna Scott, their gift from God, the child sent when they could have no children. Maybe to another girl they could have been kind, but I was too wicked from the start. It didn’t take them long to conclude that I wasn’t a miracle after all but devil-sent.

At least I’ve tornTheofree for myself—the Scotts always hated that nickname, too masculine. It’s almost enough to make it feel like I’m telling the truth when I introduce myself.

But with Nick Dalton staring at my hand like it’s a piece of uncooked chicken, the lie of it is as keen as ever.

I keep my smile in place, even as it starts to feel absurd, and then at last he stretches out a hand and closes it over mine. His grip is tight enough to hurt, but I don’t flinch.

“Theo,” he repeats.

“That’s right.” I’m relieved when he drops my hand. “Sorry if I took you by surprise. I don’t know if Connor mentioned I was coming.”

“You’re the girlfriend,” he says. I don’t correct him. “Where did you two meet again?”

“LA. We have some mutual friends at UCLA.” Meaning just Harper, but this makes me sound less like a complete loner.

“Right.” His brows draw together slightly. “Sorry, I forgot you’d be coming. Took me by surprise.”

“That’s okay,” I say. He wags his head, mutters something to himself I can’t hear, and then gestures toward the hallway.

“Sounds like everyone’s waiting on us,” he says, but stays put, forcing me to lead the way. I can feel his eyes on me as I make my way toward the dining room. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

When we reach the dining room, the appetizer course has already been served, and Nick isn’t the only new arrival—the wayward Trevor is here, his honey-blond hair flopped artfully over one eye and his shoulders stooped in an affected slouch. I find my place at Connor’s side as fresh introductions are made. Across the table, Nick’s eyes keep finding their way to me. I pick at the food.

“How was the drive up?” Alexis asks Trevor when the introductions are done.

“Lovely,” he says with a treacly smile.

“You have your license back, then?” she asks pointedly.

“Yup. All sorted out,” he replies, not breaking his tone. “How wasyourtrip, dear sister?” He reaches for the bottle of wine that’s been left at the table.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Nick asks.

Trevor pauses, hand still outstretched. For an instant, anger glints. Then he shrugs. “I was going to offer it to Theo. May I?”

Entirely aware that I’m caught in the middle of things, I tick my chin down enough to approximate a nod, and Trevor fills my glass with exaggerated care. “It’s so good to have a sister who looks out for you,” he says as he returns to his seat. His siblings are both tense, Connor’s jaw clenched so tight I can see a tendon twitching.

Magnus clears his throat. “Alexis, I’ve been meaning to ask—how is Sebastian liking the new school?” he asks.

Conversation after that is blessedly free of tension, light family catch-up that doesn’t involve me. The conversation bounces around the table at a velocity I find borderline dizzying, with threads of old conversations picked up and dropped again before I can begin to discern the context. Even Louise Dalton smiles and laughs as she asks about Sebastian’s latest antics, and there’s a gnawing feeling in my stomach, emptiness food can’t fill.

I think of heads bowed around the dinner table. Utensils clinking in strict silence—seen, not heard, do not speak unless spoken to—and a child sitting in front of a plate of stewed greens for an hour, two hours as they turned to cold, congealed slime.

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