Page 31 of A Killing Cold

“Do you have the key to Red Fox?” Nick asks Olena. She rummages it out of a pocket, hands it over. “Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll take the kid back and make sure he stays where he’s supposed to this time.”

“Are you going to tell—”

“Go,” he says, not inviting disagreement, not offering comfort.

She totters back toward the lodge, still crying quietly. Trevor waits a moment later, then lets out a sound almost like a laugh and heads in the same direction.

Nick shakes his head, a look of pure disgust on his face. “I hope you don’t mind babysitting a bit longer.”

“I guess not.” I try to sound cheerful about it. Sebastian is playing with my hair now, his fingers making jump scares in my peripheral vision as he paws at me.

“That kid,” Nick says suddenly, startling me. It takes me a beat to realize he means Trevor. “I know it was rough on them, growing up without a dad, but still. I did my best, you know. Tried to step in, but I got distracted. Had my own life. Then my own kids. I should’ve done more.”

“Connor and Alexis turned out okay,” I say, treading carefully. It’s one thing to criticize your own family, another when someone else does it. But Nick just sighs.

“It’s funny. I keep thinking Trevor turned out like this because Liam wasn’t there to set him straight, but in some ways he’s just like him. Liam had this way of looking at you that made you feel like you were the most important thing in the universe. Wasn’t anyone he couldn’t charm. He knew it, too. Always loved to be adored. Worshipped, even. And he got plenty of it.”

He’s deep in memories, but they’re not fond ones. Rose had this same tone, too, only she was more guarded.

Nick shakes himself. Smiles, gentling his expression. “I guess Connor’s pretty charming, too, huh? Didn’t take him long to talk you into marrying him.”

It’s the first time it hasn’t sounded like a dig at my intentions. “I know everybody thinks we’re rushing into it.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to grab what’s in front of you,” he says. “Nothing in this world is permanent. You never know when it’s all going to go wrong. Stand around waiting for the right time and you might lose it altogether.”

“Yeah. I think that’s pretty much it,” I say. We’ve reached the cabin. He unlocks the door and pushes it open a few inches, but doesn’t go in.

“If it’s all right, I’ll leave you to watch the tyke. I promised Mom I’d drop in at the lodge,” he says. I nod. “It was nice talking to you, Theo.”

I laugh a little. “You mind telling your mom that?”

He gives a wry smile. “I’ll see what I can do.” He hands me the key to the cabin and then steps off the porch. Then he pauses, turns back toward us. “Theo.You don’t ever go by Teddy, do you?” he asks.

My lips part. Breath slides from my lips.Teddy.The Scotts chose my name, and they never once called me by that particular nickname. And yet I can almost hear it.Teddy, let’s go.“No,” I croak. “Why?”

He puts both hands in his pockets. “No reason, I guess. Forget I said anything.” With that, he’s gone. I stare after him until Sebastian starts squirming in my arms, and at last I turn away, stepping inside the cabin.

Teddy, I think again, and it’s almost as if another voice is whispering it. A voice that, like everything else in this place, skates on the very edge of memory.

I shiver and shut the door.

13

“Fergus,” Sebastian insists, for the third time.

“I really don’t understand what you’re talking about. You’re going to have to help me out here, kid,” I reply. He screws up his face. Points toward the bedroom.

“Fergus.”

I sigh. “Is it a stuffed animal?”

“Fergus!” He stomps his foot. “Read Fergus.”

Oh, thank god. A clue. Fergus must be a book. I’ve been attempting negotiation with a cantankerous preschooler for more than an hour now. First over food—I’m pretty sure I’ve given him far more than his permitted ration of gummy fruit snacks, but he could sense weakness and I was left without much of a choice. Then we had a brief misunderstanding over whether my imaginary hand-person was allowed to eat his hand (the answer was a firm and horrified no). Entertaining a three-year-old is much harder than I remember. Of course, this three-year-old probably doesn’t get spanked for being anything but sweet, silent, and obedient.

At least he hasn’t left a single quiet corner of my mind to occupy with my earlier discovery. I have no energy for ghosts from my past when a pint-size tyrant is trying to scale me like a rock-climbing wall.

“Wait here. No adventures.” I try to sound stern, but I don’t have it in me. I want to tell him to stomp his foot and whoop and yell and tear around the room if he wants to. Of course, I won’t be the one wrangling him into bed later.

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