Page 48 of A Killing Cold

He lifts the glass toward his lips. His eyebrows raise. “Yes, dear sister?”

“You’re not supposed to be drinking.”

“According to who?” he asks. He takes a sip. The table has gone quiet.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” his mother asks softly.

“Of course it isn’t. Don’t be an idiot, Trevor. You’ve gotten into enough trouble already,” Nick says, half a growl.

“First-time offense.Barelyover the legal limit. I picked up the trash and served the homeless people their soup. I’m a reformed man,” Trevor says.

Alexis’s body is completely rigid. Connor looks angry.

“The boy can make his own choices,” Magnus says.

“Even if those choices arefucking stupid?” Alexis demands.

“Lex,” Paloma hisses, tilting her head toward Sebastian, who seems thankfully oblivious to the drama, too busy having two of his carrot sticks wage pitched battle. I can’t help but envy him. I turn my hands to fists in my lap, which sends a zip of pain through my bandaged palm.

“You can’t seriously sit there and act like this is no big deal,” Alexis says. “It wasn’t just—”

“Alexis,” Louise says, a hint of warning in her voice.

“She’s not wrong,” Magnus says, his silverware clinking as he continues to eat. “You know what that kind of bad behavior is? Weakness. And even weaker not to own up to it. You may not be ashamed of yourself, Trevor, but the rest of us sure as hell are.”

The smile is fixed on Trevor’s face. He sets down the glass slowly, without having taken a sip. “Well. Sorry to be such a disappointment to you all,” he says. “Let me relieve you of the burden of my company, then.” He stands.

“Trevor,” Rose says, but even she doesn’t seem to know whether she wants him to stay. He gives her a disgusted look and shakes his head before storming out.

“He should—” Alexis begins.

“That’s enough of that kind of talk at the table,” Louise says, and I feel attention tilt toward me. Meaning, whatever they have to talk about, it’s not for my ears. There’s obviously more going on here than a simple DUI, but I’m not about to get any more information. I glance over at Connor, but his eyes are fixed on his plate.

Louise’s silverware clicks. Magnus is splashing more wine in his glass, and her lips purse. “He isn’t the only one who shouldn’t be drinking so much,” she mutters.

Magnus’s mouth quirks. “You don’t need to fret about my health, dear. That’s what I have the doctors for.”

“And you don’t listen to them, either.”

He shrugs. “But at least they’re getting paid for it.”

The mood stays tense through the rest of the meal. When Sebastian starts squirming, Alexis seizes on the excuse to leave. “We’d better try to get him down for bed,” she says. “Maybe he’ll actually sleep this time.”

“I doubt it,” Paloma says. There are dark circles under her eyes. The two of them rise, gathering Sebastian along in their wake. Connor gives my hand a squeeze under the table, a quick assurance that we can escape momentarily.

I listen to the patter of Sebastian’s footsteps down the hall, the murmur of their voices, and then—

“What the fuck?” Alexis exclaims. For a moment, no one moves. Then she says loudly, “What the hell is this?”

Connor is the first on his feet. I rise with him and follow as he heads down the hall. Chairs scrape behind us. We arrive in the foyer to discover Alexis standing in front of the Christmas tree, staring at something on it. An ornament—a resin wreath with a spot in the middle for a photograph, cheaply made and standing in sharp contrast to the coordinated silver and gold baubles that adorn the rest of the tree.

“What is it?” Connor asks, drawing closer. Alexis takes down theornament, a frown ghosting across her lips. The photo at the center of wreath shows a car, hood crumpled, on its side several feet off the road.

It’s not the only ornament. The next one over depicts Magnus at some kind of formal event, shaking hands with a broad-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair; beside it hangs some kind of legal document, snipped into a paper snowflake.

Connor walks around the tree slowly. Paloma is standing on the other side, her eyes fixed on the tree and her expression ashen. The others file in with an air of confusion and alarm.

“What…?” Rose says. She drifts toward another one of the newly appeared decorations—another cheerful snowflake, the excised sections making it difficult to read the details. But the worddivorceis unmistakable—and so is Rose Dalton’s name.

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