Page 3 of A Killing Cold

Then the texts started to arrive.

You’re making a mistake.

Stay away from Connor Dalton.

They were anonymous, untraceable. And very possibly from someone I’m about to spend two weeks with.

“We’re here,” Connor says. There’s a gate across the road—wooden and appropriately rustic, but with a keypad mounted nearby, which Connor uses to plug in a code. The gate swings open with a faint motorized whir. “Welcome to Idlewood.”

Before us, the woods open up, like a curtain drawn back with great ceremony to reveal the marvel beyond. In the middle of it all is a large pond, its edges delicately veiled with ice, the center gray-blue and still. There’s a dock; a dinghy; a boathouse painted the same blue as the sky. On the other side of the water, up a short slope set with stone steps, looms a lodge constructed of glass and dark wood, a striking blend of natural texture and ultramodern angles.

“Is that where we’re staying?” I ask. It’s beautiful, but I can’t imagine living in a place like that, even for two weeks—those huge panes of glass, the interior exposed to anyone walking by. Though that’s the point of this place, I suppose. There’s no one to look in on you. Why bother with walls and curtains when you have a whole mountain to yourself?

“That’s the grand lodge,” Connor says. “Only Granddad and Grandma stay there. We’ll be in the White Pine cabin.” He parks the Jeep next to two other cars and climbs out. He grabs our bags from the back. Apart from the cars, there’s no sign of anyone else at first—but as Connor comes back around, Alexis emerges from the trees to our left, hand lifted in greeting.

“I thought I heard a car,” she says, teeth flashing white. Connor sets our bags down and strides forward to grab his sister up in a bear hug. She’s a narrow woman in every dimension, thin to the point of bony, her dark hair falling straight to the middle of her back. A few snowflakes are caught among the strands. She crinkles her nose when she turns to me. “Theo! So glad you could make it.”

“Glad to be here,” I say, resorting to clichés in my nervousness. The first time I met Alexis was the moment I saw just what I was getting into, dating Connor. I knew he was rich, obviously. But he was nerdy,a little hapless, forgot to iron his shirts. I’d convinced myself that he was just a normal guy, plus money. Then Alexis appeared, oozing effortless polish—expensive haircut, expensive bag, expensiveteeth, and the way she moved through the world like it never occurred to her that it wouldn’t step out of her way. She’s thirty-five, eight years older than Connor, a VP in the family company—Dalton Shipping—and by all accounts excellent at what she does.

We hug, that delicate palms-to-shoulders squeeze of reluctant acquaintances. Part of me is disappointed—the part of me that has always wished for a sister, for a family.

“And let me see…” Alexis prompts, making a grabbing gesture. It takes me a moment to figure out what she’s asking.

I dutifully stick out my hand to show her the ring—a confection of white gold, boasting a frankly enormous diamond in the center flanked by two sapphires, with more minute diamonds glittering along the band. It came with a dizzying education in cut and clarity and what the various grades meant—not that there was any doubt that it was the highest possible quality. When a Dalton says “only the best,” it’s quite literal. And god, it’s gorgeous. I want to say I’d be happy with a Ring Pop, that none of this matters, but the diamonds catch the winter sun and turn it to stars, and I know it’s a lie.

Alexis examines the ring with a practiced eye and arches an eyebrow at Connor. “Gorgeous. Excellent selection, Connor.”

He shrugs, as if embarrassed. “I just got the one you suggested.”

“Exactly,” she tells him, and grins. I smile reflexively to hide my surprise—I hadn’t known he even told her he was going to propose. Then she’s looping her arm over my shoulders, hugging me tight against her side. Together, we walk toward the path she came down. “So are you completely terrified?”

“Lex,” Connor chides.

She flips her hair over her shoulder dismissively. “What? We’re intimidating, no way around it. But don’t worry, with me on your side, you’ll emerge triumphant.”

“All this telling me not to worry isn’t really helping my nerves,” I reply, and she laughs. “Is your wife here, too?”

“Paloma and Sebastian are napping,” she says. She points at a cabin set back among the trees, far more rustic than the grand lodge.

Sebastian—that’s their three-year-old, whom I’ve seen on the phone screen over Connor’s shoulder, gabbing about daycare adventures while Connor listens attentively. Paloma has been more ephemeral: a hand guiding Sebastian away for a bath, a voice calling out that dinner is ready.

“You’re in Red Fox this year? I thought they’d stick you in Wildflower,” Connor says. The names of cabins, I can only assume.

She makes a face. “Trevor’s staying with Mom,” she says.

“Ah,” Connor says, and they share a look like this means something significant. He cuts his eyes to me. “Wildflower is the only two-bedroom cabin,” he explains.

“Oh,” I say, and then the conversation hangs and I feel like I should have something more intelligent to contribute. “Is that where you all stayed growing up?”

There’s a hitch before Alexis chirps, “Not really.”

“Dad never liked it. Too close to the lodge,” Connor says.

That’s the wound I didn’t see at first, the scar tissue both of them carry. Their father died young—in his late thirties, when Connor was a young boy. In photographs, Liam Dalton is his son’s doppelgänger—identical grins, the same way of looking at you like they’re letting you in on a secret. Sometimes it takes me a moment to work out which of them I’m seeing in the pictures that cluster on Connor’s walls.

“Trevor here yet?” Connor asks tersely.

Trevor is the baby of the family, which means he’s my age. Twenty-four. I’ve never heard Connor speak to him, only about him:What’s Trevor done this time?

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