Page 6 of A Killing Cold

We’re completely cut off up here.

3

Connor is gone for an hour. I brush my hair to tame the opportunistic tangles that have cropped up during the long car ride, put on a tasteful amount of makeup, examine myself in the mirror. My hair is a shade between copper and blond, cut just below my chin. I have one of those faces people always call “striking,” which is to say slightly off-putting—broad cheekbones and wide-set eyes that look gray or blue depending on the light. Connor calls my face mercurial: I have a small mouth but a smile that rounds my cheeks, and when I’m angry my whole expression tenses into harsh angles.

Tonight I need to try for pretty, which means a smile is a delicate bend of the lips. I put on the outfit I chose for this dinner—a cable-knit sweater and wool trousers, both of them bought with Connor’s credit card. I was surprised how easy it was, handing it over. How little shame I felt. Maybe it would have been different if he had ever seemed to care that I wore thrift-store clothes and owned only two pairs of shoes, or if when he suggested I buy clothes for the trip, he hadn’t sounded as blithely casual as if he were telling me to get a loaf of bread at the store.

In these clothes, I almost look like I belong.

I almostfeellike I belong, when I thought that was impossible—that I could belong anywhere or to anyone. There’s something different about moving through life with Connor at my side. The world seems to part before us, to watch with admiration and with envy. It’s not about the money or the clothes or the fancy dinners, though there are those: meals that melt on the tongue and supple leather boots molded to my ankles, a teardrop of gold set with a sapphire glinting at my throat.

It’s about the way the ground suddenly seems solid. How I haveroom to breathe, to move, to be unafraid. Money isn’t just money. It’s power, freedom, and protection.

Or so I thought, until the messages arrived and things started to feel far from certain. Far from safe.

I push the thoughts away and loop the scarlet scarf around my neck. I examine my reflection, checking for flaws, for cracks in the illusion. My fingertips trace a fold in the fabric, a strange sense of familiarity shivering through me.

I don’t have very many memories of my early childhood. A scattering of images, nothing more. Snow; sitting in the back seat of a car while the radio played; a woman in a red scarf. I can never recall her face.

Did it look like mine?

“Theo?” Connor is back. I hurry out of the bathroom, feeling strangely guilty. It must be snowing again; a dusting of white flakes decorates his hair. He shuffles his feet on the entryway mat. Deep lines crease the corners of his eyes.

“Did you manage to catch up with your sister?” I ask, not prying, notnotprying.

There is a hesitation before he speaks. “Yeah. It’s just a family thing. Sorry about that,” he says, eyes dodging mine. The fearful animal inside me flinches. “We can head to dinner soon.” He takes in the new outfit and the makeup, looking chagrined. “As soon as I get cleaned up enough that I don’t look like a complete slob next to my girlfriend.Fiancée.”

“Smooth,” I say. He ducks his head. It’s not like I have any room to complain. My ring lives in my bedside table most of the time, and at work Connor remains “the boyfriend.” Harper has asked me more than once, in her hesitant, just-worried-about-you way, if I don’t think I’m moving a little fast. Of course I am, I want to say. Moving fast is the only way to stay alive.

Instead I tell her that I’m fine, that this time is different. That Connor loves me, that I’m safe with him. She pretends to believe me and keeps on worrying.

Twenty minutes later, Connor and I are stepping out the door. It’s already dark outside, with only the golden pool of light from the cabin to illuminate our steps until Connor turns on a flashlight. I have always seen well in the dark, been adept at navigating by feel, without making a sound. It was a necessity, growing up. I almost prefer the dark now. The light only blinds you to what might lie beyond it.

Besides, we don’t need light to know where we’re going. The great lodge is a beacon shining through the trees. At the steps, orchestral Christmas music rises to meet us. The door swings inward to reveal a petite woman with dark hair streaked liberally with gray, sleek as lacquer and drawn back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. For a moment I think this must be Connor’s mother, until I recognize the stance, the warm but restrained smile.

Of course the Daltons didn’t come to the mountain without staff.

“Irina,” Connor says. “So good to see you.” He leans in to kiss the air just shy of her cheek.

“Ah, Mr. Connor. It’s been too long,” she says in an Eastern European accent, and pats his arm affectionately. “And this must be the mysterious girl we have heard so much about.” Does her voice cool as she turns her attention to me? She folds her hands in front of her, head tilted slightly, that smile still fixed in place.

“I’m Theo. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, not sure if I should extend my hand, but she’s already gesturing us inside.

“Irina has been working for my family since before I was born,” Connor says as we step in. We shed our coats and boots and slip into the formal shoes we carried with us.

Irina stands to the side, a presence so contained it’s like she takes up no physical space at all. “The Daltons have been very good to me,” Irina says.

“That’s wonderful,” I reply, hoping it’s the correct response.

The entryway of the lodge has cathedral ceilings, leaving plenty of room for the massive tree that dominates the center. At least fifteen feethigh, it’s decked with impeccably coordinated ornaments in shades of gold and silver. We skirt it and pass through a short hallway, emerging into what in a normal house I would call a living room, though drawing room or parlor would be a better descriptor. The rustic touches persist: natural wood beams girding the roof, a stone fireplace, a set of antlers mounted to the wall, a fur rug with a black bear’s head still attached. The floor-to-ceiling windows and wet bar belie the illusion.

Alexis sits at one end of a long white couch, a martini glass in hand. Her wife, Paloma, sits beside her, sipping what looks like club soda. Her rich black hair tumbles in artful waves over one shoulder, and she wears a form-hugging maroon dress. Their son, Sebastian, plays with a toy car on the rug in front of them, a perfect cowlick in his dark hair and tiny suspenders over his button-up shirt.

“And here they are!” Alexis says, rising to her feet. In another few seconds I’ve had my cheeks kissed, shaken Paloma’s hand, received an adorably formal greeting from Sebastian, and been supplied with a drink.

“I told you she was pretty,” Alexis says, draped over her wife’s shoulder, not bothering to keep her voice down.

Paloma huffs a little. “Lex, please.”

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