Page 101 of A Killing Cold

“Am I supposed to thank you?” I ask.

“No. But I want you to consider the fact that I am not an unreasonable man. Even when you came here, I gave you every opportunity. I took the time to ascertain whether you were aware of who you were. Whether you remembered what had happened. I waited as long as I could, but when Mr. Vance came to me and told me he’d given youMallory’s things, I knew that my hopes were unfounded. It couldn’t be avoided.”

“So you tried to have me killed.”

He savors a sip of his drink. “Nick worked it out that day, of course, and told Louise. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”

“She’s more ruthless than you are,” I observe. “I don’t know if that surprises me.”

“She isn’t the one who has to get her hands dirty,” Magnus says. “She’s never taken a life. She doesn’t understand the cost. But she also isn’t wrong about the consequences of what’s happened here today. It will be disaster. Not just for me or for her. For the whole family, the company. Connor’s trust fund, his inheritance, is largely in company shares, did you know that? Everything that funds the lifestyle of this family.”

“Tragic,” I say.

“Then there’s the stain on the family name,” Magnus goes on. “Alexis could go to prison. Sebastian would lose his mother. Connor and Trevor wouldn’t escape that taint, no matter that they had nothing to do with it.”

“Like that’s a good enough reason to cover up murder? You heard Alexis. She wants to confess. She’s done living with this secret.”

“And that would be a great tragedy, given that she is not a killer,” Magnus says. I lapse into startled silence. Magnus takes a deep draft of his drink. “The bullet caught Mallory in the neck. A dangerous wound, to be sure, but not an immediately fatal one.”

I stare at him. The smell of his Scotch mixes with the smell of the blood drying on my clothes. “Then how did my mother die?”

This is how it starts: a phone call, Vance’s worried voice.

Your girl’s here. Something’s wrong. Won’t say anything, except she didn’t mean to do it.

She won’t say anything to you, either. Her father won’t answer his phone; neither will your younger son. It’s up to you to find out what’shappening. To control the situation. You’re not far from the mountain. Still, it’s past nightfall when you make your way up the road, heading for the gate.

The woman appears like a specter. She’s pale, staggering. There’s a scarf wrapped around her neck, soaked through with blood, but she’s upright. She has a phone in one hand. You get out of the car slowly. She falls to her knees at the sight of you, as if the chance of help has robbed her of her strength.

“Please,” she says. “I can’t find them. My daughter—” Her voice is weak. She is weak. Your mind is on that phone call.

“What happened?” you ask her.

“Alexis,” she says. “She was here—I tried to tell her—she had the gun, and—” Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. She looks down at her phone. “There’s a signal,” she says, with a shuddering exhale of relief. She starts to put in the number.

There are decisions you make little by little. Decisions made by degrees; decisions made with consideration, weighing the options. But in moments like these, there isn’t time for that. Moments like these need men who can take everything in and do what needs to be done, without hesitation.

“I’ve got it,” you say, and she gives you the phone, because why wouldn’t she? You walk away from her. You speak into the phone, playacting. When you return, she’s still kneeling, still shivering.

“My daughter,” she says. “She’s still up there, and Nick—”

“It will be all right,” you assure her. You put a blanket down on the back seat. Put her on it. You drive up the mountain.

You need to control the situation.

You find the car. Blood in the snow; bloody tracks leading every which way. You tell her to wait, that you’ll be right back. You follow the tracks to the cabin, find it empty. Then farther out. The tracks are confused, the night dark. You lose your way, backtrack, find it again.

They’re already dead by the time you find your youngest son. His brother and the girl both. “What did you do?” you ask.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

Your eldest son is dead. So is this child, whoever she is.

You need to control the situation.

You walk back to the car. She’s still alive. Weaker than before. Her breath is fluttery. Her eyes have trouble focusing. When she speaks, you can’t hear her; you have to lean close.

“Did you find them?” she asks. “My daughter. Liam. Are they okay?”

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