Page 46 of A Killing Cold

“I… I don’t know,” I say, and it feels like a betrayal. Of myself, of my mother. Like I’m denying her existence. “Harper, I don’t know what to do.”

“Theo, we’re talking about very rich, very powerful people,” Harper says. “If you break up, whatever—they won’t care. But if you start making accusations, make them look bad…” She trails off.

“What do you think they’d do to me? They’re good people, aren’t they?” I ask with an edge of irony. “They’re respectable people.”

“I’ve heard things,” Harper says. “The Daltons don’t like to be challenged. And rich people are ruthless.”

“So what are you saying? What am I supposed to do?”

Harper takes a breath, lets it out in a rush. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you’re obviously in trouble, and you’re not safe there. You need to come home.”

“I can’t.”

“Theo…”

“How well do you know Connor, Harper?” I ask her. “Tell me he isn’t like this. Tell me I can trust him one hundred percent, and I’ll let it all go.”

She’s quiet for too long. “Theo,” she says softly, singsong. “Baby… I met Connor at my show. When he bought those prints.”

“You said you were friends.”

“You know me. I call the lady next to me on the bus my friend because she gave me a stick of gum,” Harper says with a little laugh. “I’d only met Connor that one time when he came to the party.” There’s another pause, because I have no idea what to say. “You should come home.”

“Thank you, Harper. I’ll talk to you later,” I say mechanically, and end the call, cutting off whatever she tries to say next.

I stare down the road. Wheel ruts rake through the snow. Crows quarrel in the distance. I can almost imagine I am completely alone up here.

My phone buzzes. I look down, expecting Harper. Instead, it’s an unknown number.

Dora, it’s Joseph. We need to talk.

I blink at it, expecting the words to rearrange themselves into something that makes more sense. Joseph is not supposed to contact me; I’m not supposed to contact him. That’s the deal. It’s the agreement we came to, after everything with Peter, after the way I left.

There’s only one reason I can think of for him to break that agreement.

Those anonymous text messages weren’t a bluff or a guess.

Someone else knows.

22

When I met Peter Frey, I was sixteen years old. He wasn’t much older—seventeen and change. His father was our new pastor and Beth was always good at courting power. In our little corner of the world, Peter’s dad was as good as a king. So we were over there often enough, and Beth did her best to cultivate a friendship with Peter’s mom, though she never got beyond arm’s length. Her big mistake was asking for a family biscuit recipe too early. That kind of intimacy needs to be earned. I will never forget the subtle and stinging rebuke of the recipe card slotted back in its little wooden box, the lid snapping shut.

They had five children, a respectable number. Peter was the third child, the oldest boy. I wasn’t permitted to socialize with boys outside of Sunday school, and he held a fascination for me, with his curly brown hair and freckles, the softness of his cheeks.

I was in his room when he found me.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just looking around,” I said.

“You were stealing.”

I couldn’t deny it. There was a pin in my hand, given to him for some church boys’ group accomplishment. I opened my hand, holding it out. “I just wanted to see it.” It had been forgotten in the back of the drawer. It wouldn’t have been missed; I would have treasured it. These were the rules I went by.

He stepped toward me, but he didn’t take the pin. I dressed in loose peasant blouses and dowdy skirts, but there was no hiding that I wasa young woman, and his eyes found every bit of proof of that as they wandered down my body and then up it again.

“I could get you in trouble,” he said.

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