Page 97 of A Killing Cold

More lies. More stories not lining up. There was no suicide. Horror and shame didn’t drive Liam to his death, a blow to the head did, and Alexis got fed a story that kept her cowed. Her guilt kept her silent. But now it’s over, I tell myself, and in the same instant I know it isn’t remotely true.

“Theo.” Connor staggers toward me. The side of his face is scraped to hell and he’s holding his arm tight against his body, the opposite hand clapped over the spot where blood blooms on his arm, but he’s breathing, he’s upright, he’salive.

He stares at me, and I know what he sees. Blood on my clothes. On my hands. On my neck, where Nick grabbed it, on the knife still clutched in my hand. I brace myself for him to shy away from me.

But he only walks forward slowly. Eyes flicking to Nick, away. Hereaches out, his own hand slick with crimson, and pulls me to him. He kisses me. Not rough, not tender; this kiss is needful, certain.

“You’re okay,” he says. And then, pulling away, looking into my eyes, “You’re okay?”

I nod, a tremor of a gesture. “Your arm—”

“It’s not great,” he says tightly. What he means is that it’s bleeding, though not so much that it seems like it hit something vital. He’s wearing his gray scarf; I take it from around his neck and tie it tight around the wound, making him hiss in pain. It’s makeshift, but it seems to slow the bleeding. “It went right through. I think—I think I’ll be all right.” He sounds queasy.

“We’ll get you help,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking and failing. I almost lost him. Almost lost everything.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

We should run. Take Nick’s ATV and get down the mountain and away from here.

And they will chase us. Chase me.

Rowan, hide.

I’m not her anymore. I am done hiding. It’s time to bare my teeth.

“We’re going back to the lodge,” I say. Connor looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I touch the side of his hand. “Do you trust me?” I ask.

He thinks for a long time. I wait. I’m not offended. I want him to decide. To be sure. “I trust you,” he says.

“Then help me get the gun.”

45

The lodge is a beacon in the night. Every light is on, and through the vast picture windows I can make out figures in the living room. We’ve turned off our flashlights, but the light reflecting off the snow is enough that if they look toward us, they’ll see us.

“You ready?” I ask Connor.

“Nope,” he says, and keeps walking.

They’re all in the living room when we enter. Everyone but Sebastian—even Paloma is here, standing in the corner of the room with one shoulder against the wall and a glass of purplish wine in her hand, her thoughts clearly a million miles away; I wonder what Alexis told her. Then Louise looks up and her eyes widen, then narrow.

“What the fuck?” Trevor says; Rose gives a cry. Alexis reaches for her drink, hand trembling, and Magnus does not move at all, sitting in his place of primacy in a wingback chair.

“Oh, good. Everyone’s already here,” Connor says. “Sit down, Mom.”

“You’re hurt.” She’s on her feet, reaching for him.

“Rose, sit down,” Magnus says. She looks at him, back at Connor, conflicted. Then, obedient, she sinks down to the couch.

“Trevor, you too,” Connor says. Trevor is standing behind the couch. With a look of indifference that almost conceals the flicker of concern in his eyes, he rounds the couch and sits between his mother and sister, crossing an ankle over his knee and winging his arms out over the back of the couch in a faux casual pose. I can see the pulse at his neck, beating fast.

“Where is Nick?” Magnus asks.

“Not here,” I say. Magnus’s eyes narrow, but I’m not ready to give him a conclusive answer.

“Connor, what’s happening?” Rose asks.

“What’s happening is that this family has been keeping too many secrets for far too long, and it’s time to get them out in the open,” Connor says. He looks to Paloma. “Is Sebastian okay?”

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