Page 14 of A Killing Cold

Without the footsteps to follow, I continue forward cautiously.

There’s nothing here, and my hands are aching from the chill. My face, too. Under the canopy of the trees, I can’t see a thing.

Except, up ahead, the dark shape of a two-story building. My mind constructs the map from the bathroom, tracing a dotted line from the steps of the White Pine cabin. If I’ve headed mostly straight, I should be right where the fifth cabin is.

My imagination sparks with images of lurking slashers and skulking fugitives, taking advantage of a disused cabin to set up camp, but Itell myself it’s ridiculous. Though the mountain would make a pretty good place to hide—anytime but two weeks over Christmas and a month in the summer.

I creep forward, moving more by feel than sight. The trees give way a few feet from the cabin, and the moonlight makes the wood look pale and gray. Three steps lead up to a small porch. The wood is scuffed, one step bowed. It groans under my boots.

White Pine has a brass tree tacked to its door, and I look for one here, but there’s nothing—only, when I brush my fingertips over the wood, a pair of holes where screws might have once been drilled through and a faint silhouette, wood less weathered than what’s around it. The shape is indistinct, barely discernible in the pale moonlight flung up from the snow.

Bright light spills across me. I whirl with a cry, flinging up a hand to protect myself from the blinding beam of a flashlight. It lowers quickly, but I can’t see the figure who’s holding it.

“Miss Scott, isn’t it?” says a voice it takes me a moment to place.

“Mr. Vance. You startled me.”

“What are you doing out here in the dark?” His tone is thick with suspicion—or maybe just confusion.

He steps closer, the light still down, and as my eyes adjust, I see that Duchess is with him, her attention trained on me, her head held low. A faint rumble of a growl sounds before Vance hushes her.

I consider lying, then decide against it. “I heard something outside the cabin, and when I looked out, there were footprints,” I say, watching his face for a reaction. Trying to ignore Duchess’s intent stare.

His eyebrows raise. “Footprints?” he echoes. “And you decided to follow them.”

“It was probably pretty stupid,” I acknowledge. My teeth are chattering.

“That’s a word for it,” he says. “Don’t let the luxury fool you, miss. The cold kills you just as quick here as anywhere else, and it’s easy to get turned around in these woods. Even when you’ve brought a light.Which it doesn’t look like you’ve done.” He sighs. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your cabin. You can show me these footprints.”

I don’t see that I have another choice, especially as he’s already setting off in the direction I came from. It occurs to me belatedly that I didn’t see his light until it was shining on me—and that he’s backtracking without asking me which way to go. It means he spotted me before he approached. And it means Mr. Vance is as comfortable in the dark as I am.

I glance behind myself again. With my eyes now calibrated to the bright flashlight, I can’t make out anything but the rough shape of the door.

There is something about it—some low thrum of a feeling I can’t name. It reminds me of the moment a plane begins to ascend, the strange sensation of the ground rising up beneath you.

“Where are these tracks?” Mr. Vance asks, pulling my attention back around. I hurry forward to catch up with him and with the light, putting myself on the opposite side from Duchess, who watches me with wary dark eyes. She’s silent as she moves. Something about that strikes me as odd, and then I realize—she’s not wearing tags, or they would jangle.

My throat is dry as I point across the stretch of bare earth, toward where the snow layer thickens and the footprints—and mine—are visible. Vance grunts and walks to them.

He has a gun on his hip.

Mr. Vance kicks at one of the prints, caving in the heel. “Could be fresh. Could be from this morning,” he says. “You said they went by your cabin?”

“Up to the bedroom window,” I say.

“Think someone was sneaking a peek?” he asks.

My cheeks heat, images and sensations ghosting through my mind—Connor’s hands stealing under my shirt, Connor’s teeth against my neck, Connor pulling me roughly to him.

“Did you see where they came from?” Vance is asking; I’ve taken too long to answer.

“Just followed where they went. I think they came from the main path, though,” I say.

“Probably won’t be able to sort them out from everyone else’s, then,” he says. “They’re probably from earlier today. Somebody taking a walk, that’s all.” He shifts his weight, and I look down at the impression he leaves in the snow. I think his footprints look larger than the others—but I can’t be sure.

“There’s no chance there’s someone else around?”

“Nobody’s on the mountain and I don’t know about it,” Vance says, teetering between offense and pride. “It’s just the family here. And you.”

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