Page 43 of A Killing Cold

Some secrets stay that way because of the trouble they could cause. Others because the pain of silence is slightly more bearable.

“What happened to them after the accident? Mallory and Teddy, I mean?” I ask. It feels strange to speak the name without claiming it. Teddy. A bear with a red ribbon and soft fur and arms wrapped around me.Everything’s going to work out, Teddy. You’ll see.

My breath catches in my throat. Nick doesn’t seem to notice. “She took off. I have no idea where to. I didn’t exactly care, at the time,” hesays. “We weren’t terribly kind to her. Maybe she deserved it, I don’t know. We were all just so shocked and grieving, and then finding out what Liam was doing up here…” He scrubs a hand over his face.

What Liam was doing up here.The phrase sticks in my mind, and I give an involuntary shiver.

“You look so much like her,” he says again. His eyes trace the contours of my face. I want to hide, to turn my face away. I make myself hold still under his scrutiny. “I wondered if there was some way you could be her. The name, you know.”

“But her name wasn’t Theodora,” I say.

“No. No, it wasn’t,” he says. I wait. I want him to say it. I need him to say it. But he sighs, straightens up. “I should let you eat that before it goes completely soggy.”

I look down at my food. A moment ago I was ravenous, but now the sight of it turns my stomach.

“Thank you for coming by,” I say.

He dips his head. “Not a problem. No, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.” I cancel the obligatory move to rise. He lumbers his way to the door, pulls on his boots.

“Nick,” I say suddenly. He pauses, hand on the door. “Did Liam smoke?”

A line appears between his brows. “Now and then,” he said. A laugh rumbles in his chest. “We picked up the habit here. Sneaking Dad’s cigs out in the woods. I still get that urge when I roll up to the gate. Kicked it a long time ago, though. Patients don’t like a doctor who smokes. Why?”

“No reason,” I say. He looks puzzled but doesn’t press. He lifts a hand in a final farewell, but after the door is open, before he steps out, he pauses.

“Curiosity’s one thing, Theo. But digging up the past like this… it’s not good for anyone,” he says. “Just opens up old wounds. You should throw that photo away. Don’t let Connor see it. And I’d stayaway from Dragonfly, if I were you. There’s nothing there but bad memories.”

“I understand,” I say. He takes that as agreement, and leaves at last. I don’t tell him that I knew that already.

That the bad memories are exactly what I’m trying to find.

20

It’s cold in the cabin. The fire went out in the stove, and no one has relit it. I wear layers of sweaters and sit in silence at the kitchen table, waiting.

Connor returns at last with cheeks red from the cold and an apology muffin for being late. He’s been gone more than an hour. I’m still stuffed from the waffles but accept the muffin as the tribute it’s intended to be, and he kisses me tenderly as if he can’t be sure what kind of touch is safe, won’t hurt me.

“What did Nick say?” he asks. At my startled silence he adds, “About your hand.”

Right. “That I’m an unbelievable klutz. Not in so many words.” I waggle my eyebrows, going for playful.Why did you lie to me, Connor?

He sought me out. And he hid it. He never told me about the art show, and neither did Harper. There must be some innocent explanation, because this is Connor, the boy without scars on his skin, whose only wound is sorrow. He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t spend all these months hiding things from me to lure me here for some unknown purpose.

He goes to start a new pot of coffee. “Does he think you need to get it looked at?”

“No, it should heal just fine. I took a couple of ibuprofen to help with the pain. Should be much better in a few days, and look completely disgusting until then.”

Connor starts up the coffee and takes the same seat where Nick installed himself. “I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“That’s unusual for you,” I tease; he huffs.

“My family—okay, mostly my grandparents—are worried about me marrying you. They think we don’t know enough about you,” he says. He scratches the side of his face. “I know that you don’t like talking about your childhood. But maybe if you laid it all out on the table, they would see that there isn’t anything nefarious there.”

“Nefarious?” I repeat. He lifts his shoulders, lets them drop. My spine stiffens. “My past is none of their business.”

“But isn’t it mine?” he asks. “I don’t even know your parents’ names. I don’t know how they died, if you have other family, if you liked school or if you got good grades or…” He spreads his hands.

I look away, staring at the wall, at the window, at nothing. “Elizabeth and Joseph Scott,” I say. “And I was homeschooled. They weren’t good parents, Connor, and I don’t like talking about it.”

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