Page 88 of A Killing Cold

“Murder isn’t a mistake,” I say.

Rage flashes in his eyes. I think suddenly of how furious he was when we found Sebastian out in the cold. I’d assumed it was on Sebastian’s behalf, born of concern. I took his reaction as a sign that he was a good man. But it turns out he’s just an angry one.

“Killing my mother. Was that just ‘unfortunate,’ too?” I ask. “Was that just an accident?”

He watches me, his fingers dangling idly. “She was infuriating, you know. She really knew how to push my buttons. But I’ll admit I went too far. I was young. In love.”

“That’s not love,” I spit out.

“And you think you know what love is?” he asks disdainfully. “I loved her. Would’ve done anything to hold on to her. What happened in the end—yes, it was unfortunate.” He pauses. “But I didn’t kill her.”

My breath speeds up. He’s lying. He has to be. He looks off into the distance. His hand reaches for his pocket, as if for a cigarette that isn’t there anymore. And then he begins to speak.

Funny, the way a secret fights to get free. You think you’ve got them locked up with threats and promises and careful planning, but they’ll find their way. His brother was so careful—and then a sick wife; a kid in the passenger seat; a call from the mountain that the water isn’t working; a promise extracted and quickly broken.

Don’t blame the boy. He doesn’t understand what he did, telling his mother about the woman living at Idlewood. But now the secret is free, and it flies swiftly from ear to ear. The boy tells his mother and she does what she has always promised herself she would do: she does not make excuses, does not dwell on denial. She will give him a chance to explain, but first she will make sure she’s prepared. She calls her lawyer, has papers drawn up. That day she sits waiting for him to come home. Waiting to confront him. She needs support, she needs a sympathetic ear, and so she calls her husband’s brother. She tells him everything.

He listens. And then he sets out for the mountain. Only to find he’s not the first one there.

The woman’s already shot when he gets there. Didn’t expect that, did you? Hand clapped feebly against the wound on her neck, but she’s struggling to her feet. Still got life in her. She always was stubborn.

She sees him and screams. She lunges forward to grab at something— a rifle, dropped in the snow. She has to take her hand off her neckto lift it, and as fresh blood gouts from the wound, she staggers. He crosses the distance to her in two quick strides and yanks the rifle from her grasp.

“Idiot,” he snarls at her. He grabs her by the throat. Only way to stop the bleeding. Shoves her into the back seat of the car. “Lie the fuck down. Who—”

“Get away from her!” It’s his brother. He’s sprinting across the lot. No chance to explain. They collide. His brother grabs at the rifle. They tussle, the man gets the upper hand, the rifle pulls free and then comes down hard, just once.

Just self-defense.

But his brother drops, and the woman’s staring at him with horror in her eyes.

“We’re getting out of here,” he says. “Where’s the girl?”

But she shakes her head. Always an unhelpful bitch, that one. Wildflower. They’ll be in Wildflower, surely. Girl’s probably there now. He starts off across the snow.

“I never shot her,” Nick says. Every word could be a lie. But why bother? “She made up stories, you know. Took every little thing and turned it into this grand operatic event. I’m not making excuses. I was a shit boyfriend. I drank too much and got too angry. But the way she made it sound, like I was this monster… I’m not a monster.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say. “I saw the photos. I saw what you did.”

He drags his thumb across his lips. “You were a sweet kid. I truly wish none of this had happened.”

“It didn’t justhappen. You did it. You chose it,” I say.

“I didn’t do anything to you.”

“I remember.” There are tears in my eyes, and I can’t wipe them away. “You just stood there. You watched me die.”

“I didn’t kill you. The cold did,” he says. “It would’ve been betterif it took. Saved everyone a whole lot of suffering. You, especially. But none of this was my fault. I never shot Mallory. And Liam, that was an accident.”

“If you didn’t kill her, who did?” I demand.

For a moment, he looks as though he’s about to answer. Then the stairs creak. Vance appears, Duchess at his heels, and my heart leaps, but of course he looks to Nick.

“Mr. Dalton?”

Nick sighs. Pushes himself to his feet. “Sorry about this,” he says. Then, to Vance, “Don’t talk to her. Just keep an eye on her until sunset. We’ll move her then.”

“Yes, sir.”

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