Page 41 of A Killing Cold

He’s been lying to me ever since we met. He’s never pried about my past, but was that only because he knew it would make me run away?

When I first told him about the dream, he asked if I thought it might be a memory.Pieces of one, maybe, is what I told him.

He leaves me in the cabin. Insists on going to the lodge to get us both breakfast. I pace uneasily. I need to talk to Harper.

I need to get out of here.

I need to know what happened in this place, all those years ago.

What I can’t do is just sit around here. I start for the door, grabbing my coat and yanking it on as I step outside. I’m in such a hurry that I don’t notice Nick on the stoop. I yelp, stumble. He reaches out, catching me with one hand as I come down the stairs. He hauls me upright, carefully balancing a wooden tray on one hand. It’s loaded high with what looks like a waffle buffet for five.

“Whoa there,” he says. He looks amused.

“Sorry,” I stammer.

“No worries,” he assures me. He tips his head toward the waffles. “Connor got held up at the lodge. I’ve been dispatched to bring you breakfast and check your hand,” he says after a beat of silence. We can’t seem to get our rhythm right, keep spending moments staring at each other like this.

“My hand?” I echo. I sound calm, at least.

“I’m a doctor,” he says. I flush. I should have remembered.

“It’s really fine,” I tell him. As if to contradict me, my hand gives a stubborn throb of pain. My fingers twitch.

“Connor seemed pretty worried. Let me just take a look. So I can reassure him,” he says.

“What if I refuse?” I ask.

“Then I guess you don’t get any waffles,” he tells me gravely, and I laugh a little, because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

“Right,” I say. I turn back to the cabin, heading up the two steps.

“Hold on, you dropped something,” Nick says. I turn in time to see him crouching down, makeshift tray carefully balanced, to pick up the white rectangle that’s fallen to the snow.

The photograph. It was still in my pocket. It must have come loose when he collided and now he’s picking it up, turning it over. His face goes blank. He stares at it for a long moment. And then he stretches out his hand.

I take it from him, fingers trembling. “Thanks,” I say.

He says nothing. Nods. I turn and walk quickly inside, listening for his footsteps and the thunk of the door closing behind me. I set the picture on the counter, face down. He carries the waffles over to the counter and then pulls a kitchen chair out.

“Take a seat,” he says.

I do as directed. He sits in the chair opposite me. I hold my hand out. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he examines it.

“Pretty decent job on the bandages, given that you’re operating one-handed,” he notes. He peels off the adhesive, pulls it aside. He grimaces. “Jesus. You did this on the stove?”

“Just clumsy, I guess.” The skin has blistered badly at the edges of the burn.

“Well, you did everything right,” he says. “Top marks for the first-aid knowledge.”

“My family wasn’t big on doctors,” I say. He looks up at last, curious. I arch an eyebrow. “They’re all crooks and quacks trying to take your money and pump you full of pills.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, nodding.

“Though really, I think we were broke and the philosophical objections were cover,” I say. “Anyway, short of actually getting impaled on a piece of rebar or something, I was taught to take care of things myself.” I’m talking too fast. My nerves make me chatty.

“That’s why I bribed you with waffles,” Nick says. “My dad’s the same way. Especially now that he’s getting older.”

“It’s a hard instinct to unlearn,” I admit. You don’t ask for help. You just get it done, and you don’t complain, and you don’t let anyone see that you’re weak.

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