Page 90 of A Killing Cold

She went to confront them.

I had assumed it was Nick. Nick in a rage, storming up here to do god knows what and Liam—Liam, I know now, was protecting me. Protecting us. But I was wrong about who he was protecting me from.

The gun was only for show. But something went wrong. Accident or anger? Does it matter? A pull of the trigger. My mother with her hand on her throat and blood gushing between her fingers, and all of a sudden an affair wasn’t what the Daltons needed to cover up.

Mr. Vance sighs. “I better go downstairs. Keep an eye out and all that.” He grabs the rag.

“No—” I start, but he jams the rag in, then pulls the cord back up. I make a muffled sound of protest, but it’s no use.

“You just wait here,” he says, as if I have any other choice.

Duchess stays. She stands, ambles over to me, and sniffs at me once again, nose prodding against my sides. She circles back around and I freeze, heart thudding, waiting for her to bare her teeth. But then she gives a sigh and settles down beside me. She lays her head over my thigh, her eyes dark and wary, ears pricked toward the doorway.

Her breaths are steady. Her body is warm. And with her head nestled in my lap, I shut my eyes and allow myself to weep.

I don’t know how long it is before my tears are spent. I train my attention on the steady rise and fall of Duchess’s side, calming my own breath to match it.

I have to think—to wrench my mind out of memory and out of theblind panic of my situation and try to imagine a way out of this mess. I have the knife. And I might have a minute or two before Vance comes back.

The knife is easy. It’s still in the pocket of my coat, blessedly overlooked in Nick’s haste to get me out of there. His urgency suggests there are people on this mountain who aren’t part of this. Louise, Vance, Magnus, Rose, Nick—all of them are threats. But there might still be help here.

I have to hope.

I wriggle the knife from my pocket, awkward with my hands tied together, and manage to open it. I contort my hands to get it under the plastic zip tie and saw, but I’m not getting anywhere. Instead I twist, wedging the blade of the knife between the floorboards, and finally there’s enough pressure against the tie and it snaps, my hands springing apart. I scrabble at my cheeks, pulling the cord free and spitting out the gag. As I sit up, Duchess hauls herself upward with a slightly annoyed huff, irritated at having her headrest taken away.

“Hush,” I say under my breath. “Settle, girl.”

She blinks at me. Gives a long stretch. Stands there, as if waiting to see what I’ll do next. Warily, I get my legs under me and rise. I wait for her to growl, to bark. Instead her tail fans slightly and she paces forward to fit her blocky head under my hand. I scratch between her ears, and she pants.

“Good girl,” I whisper. Now to get out of here.

There’s a window next to the bed. We’re on the second story—a longer drop than I’d like, but the snow looks soft. I have to hope it will cushion a fall. I unlatch the window, moving with painful slowness, and start to ease open the window.

Two inches up, it sticks. I bite my lip to stop myself from swearing. I wrap my fingers around the bottom of the window. Haul upward—

It gives all at once, scraping another four inches up before thumping as it sticks again.

“What are you doing up there?” Mr. Vance calls.

“Shit,” I hiss, and tug at it again, but it won’t give. It’s far too narrow for me to fit through. Vance’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. I strain. Crouching down, I shove my shoulder against the bottom of the window, and it wiggles but won’t give.

“Stop it,” Mr. Vance orders, and rough hands grab hold of me, pulling me back and spinning me around. I barely have time to flinch as he backhands me, hand cracking against my cheek.

Duchess snarls. She’s a blur: black fur, white teeth, pink gums bared as she snaps the air as she launches not at me but at Mr. Vance. He stumbles back in surprise, losing his grip, and I rear back away from him.

“Duchess, down!” he hollers, but she stands between us, hackles bristling and her teeth bared. “What the hell has gotten into you?” he demands. He starts toward me. She half lunges again, teeth snapping a warning, and he skitters back.

I bolt. Past Duchess. Down the stairs. As I dash for the door, my eyes catch on a pale spot above the door—the ghost of a trophy mount, its outline permanently marked by the fading of the wood around it.

The air hits me cold and razor-sharp, and like I did so long ago, I run.

40

The sun is bright against the snow, dazzling my eyes. I can’t head to the lodge. Or to White Pine—they’ll look for me there first.

But there’s one person here I’m certain isn’t involved in all this. She might hate me for getting her involved, but I don’t have a choice.

I head for Red Fox.

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