Page 42 of A Killing Cold

“Well, you’re doing the right thing. Keep up the ointment or petroleum jelly, and wash and rebandage it a couple of times a day,” he says. “Nasty spot, but it should heal all right. Try not to use that hand too much.”

“I don’t think I have an option,” I say ruefully.

“On that note, let me help you with your breakfast,” he says. I start to get up. He waves me back into the chair. “Nope. I’ve got this. As your doctor, I absolutely forbid you to do it yourself. Strawberries? Blueberries? Whipped cream?” he asks.

My answers produce a pair of waffles piled high with all three. I try in vain to cut the waffle with the edge of my fork. He leans in, takes it from me, picks up the knife. I sit back, feeling like a child. Joseph cutting up my meat for me, because I wasn’t allowed sharp things.

“That photograph,” he says.

“I found it.” I try not to sound defensive.

“In here?” he asks. I don’t answer. “Dragonfly.” He sits back, setting fork and knife on the plate. He regards me from beneath dark brows. I feel cut apart under that gaze. Carefully sectioned and considered. The kindness is gone from him, replaced with wariness. “Mr. Vance said you’d been going out there at night.”

“Not every night,” I say. So Vance has been watching me, trackingthe movement of my flashlight in the dark. I imagine Duchess with him. His hand on her ruff, restraining her.

“Why would you do that?” he asks. His tone is impossible to read.

“Curiosity, I suppose,” I say.

“You were prying.”

“It’s just an empty cabin.” I don’t tell him how much I hate closed doors, locked cabinets, things kept up high out of reach. How I’ve always had the need to know, to have, to inhabit. “Anyway, I found the photo and thought I should give it to Connor or something, but I completely forgot I had it.” Voice bright and innocent, like I’ve got no idea what it might mean.

“Do you know who it is?” Nick asks.

“I know the man is Connor’s father,” I say. I take a bite of my food. Swallow it down without tasting it. “Who’s the little girl?” Does he see how much she looks like me? My face has changed. The girl’s cheeks are rounder, her features softer.

Nick’s fingertips tap a slow rhythm against the tabletop, like he’s thinking. It reminds me of a heartbeat, but mine’s so much quicker, pattering away in my chest. “She was called Teddy,” he says. “It wasn’t her real name. A nickname—pet name, really. Her mother was… a friend. Of Liam’s.” He’s careful when he says it. Not sure how much to say. His eyes give him away—the anger in them.

I think of the way he and Rose looked at each other, how he stepped in. He’d taken it personally, what his brother did.

“You asked me if I ever went by Teddy,” I say.

He dips his chin. “I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t even her real name,” he says. “It was because she was obsessed with teddy bears.”

Like the one in the photo. In my memory.Teddy Too, I called it, because we had the same name.

“You do look a little like her. Mallory, I mean—and I guess her daughter, though it’s hard to say with little kids, you know.”

I’m glad that I’m wearing the high-collared sweater. That he can’t see the two little birthmarks on my throat, their perfect match in the photo.“Mallory. That was her mother’s name?” It stirs no recognition in me. But of course it wouldn’t—for a little girl,Mamais the only name you need.

“That’s right. Beautiful woman,” he says.

“You knew her.”

“Not well.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t go mentioning any of this to Connor or Rose. It brings up painful memories.”

“Because Liam was sleeping with her,” I say bluntly.

“Who told you that?” he demands.

I skewer a strawberry. “It seemed pretty obvious.” He doesn’t need to know about Trevor. “I wouldn’t have guessed it. From the way Connor talks about his father, I mean.”

“We didn’t want any of the kids finding out about Mallory. Hell, I didn’t even want Rose knowing, she was dealing with enough already, but there wasn’t much way around it. Mallory and the kid were here when the accident happened.”

I school my face in a picture of appropriate surprise, sorrow, and awkwardness.

“Alexis found out, and she told her brother. Alexis… she took it hard. Barely came out of her room for months. Wouldn’t eat. Hurt herself.” He doesn’t specify. I picture a razor against pale skin, Alexis’s face set with concentration and intent. “Connor just pretended he hadn’t heard. Kept on building up his father as the superhero he wanted to remember. I don’t blame the kid. Anyway, you can see why no one would talk about a thing like that.”

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