Page 39 of A Killing Cold

Once upon a time, I would have made a study of Trevor Dalton, learned every inch of his interior, reflected it back at him. Because boys like him, they love nothing so much as staring into a mirror.

“Trevor,” I say softly. He shifts his weight, leaning in without leaning in, and I rise on my toes enough to put my face close to his. “Fuck off,” I say.

He laughs. And then, before I can react, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and jams the lit end of the cigarette into my palm. I let out amuffled cry of pain, but he’s already let go, stepped back. He flicks the cigarette into the snow and vanishes in the pure darkness of the porch.

“Have a nice night, Theo,” he bites out.

My hand throbs with pain. I grit my teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a whimper, an exclamation. I stumble off the porch, wrestling my flashlight from my pocket. Behind me I hear the rasp of a lighter as he starts in on a new cigarette, but I refuse to turn around, even as tears well in my eyes.

I don’t slow down until I reach White Pine.

17

I sneak back into the cabin like a criminal, clinging to silence and shadows. I shed my clothes layer by layer in the dark. The burn on my palm provides a slithering sense of pain, building and receding but never entirely vanishing. I ignore it for now and pad into the bedroom. Connor sleeps on his back, one arm above his head, the other across his body. Even in his sleep his brow is furrowed, his face a picture of unhappiness.

I go over to his suitcase. I don’t know what I’m looking for, exactly. Probably nothing. But I have to begin somewhere. He’s finally unpacked his clothes into the dresser, but I run my fingers inside every little zippered pocket, moving slowly, checking every few seconds to be sure he hasn’t stirred. I come up empty except for a creased boarding pass from six months ago—just before we met. LAX to SEA. First class, obviously.

I tuck it carefully back in where I found it. Make sure all the zippers are closed or open according to how I found them. There are little details you have to keep track of. What direction someone closes their suitcase in, whether they left the drawer fully closed or a quarter-inch open, whether a book was straight or crooked on the bedside table. It’s important to follow wilderness rules when you are mapping your way through a person’s life. Leave no trace.

I try his drawers next, sliding my hands between each of his shirts, feeling along the folds in case something is tucked inside. Nothing.

His phone. It’s in the drawer, fully charged despite the lack of signal—he’s conscientious about that, at least. I put in the code, flip through hismessages. The same messages from Alexis I’ve already seen. Texts to and from his mother, simple pleasantries, checking in.

Are you sure about bringing her?she asked, weeks ago. He told her he was.

I scroll back. Names I know and names I don’t. He’s not huge on texting, really. He prefers phone calls, hearing another person’s voice. I pause when I recognize another name. Harper. The last text message was eight months ago. I click through.

Hey, Connor again. It was great chatting with you at the show.

Of course!

I am so glad you connected with my work.

I hope you enjoy the pieces.

I know I will.

Actually, I wanted to ask you about that portrait, the black and white one.

Right. Like I said, that one’s not available.

You said she was a friend of yours, right?

Yeah, she was my roommate sophomore year. She’s an interesting gal.

I was wondering if you could introduce us.

It’s several hours later that Harper responds.

I guess I could do that. But you should know, Theo can be a little intense.

I don’t mind intense.

Should I give her your number?

No. I’d rather you introduce us in person.

Um, okay. I’m having a party next week she said she’d be at, if you want to drop by. I mean, you did buy enough prints to cover my rent for, like, three months. Least I could do is invite you over for cheap booze and pretentious conversation with failed poets.

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