Page 75 of Cold as Hell

The window shows nothing but driving snow, and I’m really trying not to worry about that. If I squint, I can see treetops below. Dalton’s back on the radio, and he’s switched it so I can listen in. I appreciate that. I keep quiet, and I listen as the air traffic controller helps guide us in.

Landing in a snowstorm introduces the triple threat of poor visibility, high winds, and an icy runway. It helps that this is a northern airport, where runways can be icy for most of the year. It also helps that Dalton is a northern pilot—even when the skies are clear when he takes off, he might be landing in a flurry. Thatdoesn’t mean this is easy or that there aren’t a few times when I close my eyes and wrap my hands around my belly, as if that will help. But in the end, it’s as perfect a touchdown as we could hope for.

The plane idles on the runway. The air traffic controller gives final instructions, telling us to take our time. We’re parked, and there’s no one else coming in behind us.

Catch our breath, she means. Take a moment and just breathe.

We’re doing that when Dalton blurts, “I don’t want to do this again, Casey.”

I’m silent for a moment. Then I say, carefully, “I’m guessing you don’t mean flying in a snowstorm.”

“Fuck.” He presses his hands to his face and rocks forward. “I’m sorry. This is not the time.”

“No.” I twist to lay my hand on his arm. “Say what you need to say, Eric. You don’t want more kids.”

“I… I don’t know about that. Maybe? Maybe not? I just mean, if we did want more, I don’t want to do this again. I’d rather adopt or foster or… something else.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to play Russian roulette with birth control again. I want to make sure. I want to have a—” He takes a deep breath. “Fuck. This really isn’t the time. I’m sorry.”

“No, I get it.”

He looks over, his gray eyes cloudy. “You get that you married a selfish asshole with serious abandonment issues who melts down over a pregnancy?”

I inch over to hug him as best I can in the cockpit. “No, I get that you don’t want me to die, which is a good thing.”

He gives a tight laugh. “Better than the alternative?”

“Much better.” I hug him again. “Seriously, though. Remember how I said, if anything went wrong and there was a choicebetween saving me or the baby, I want you to make that decision? That’s the way they used to do it. The husband decided. I heard stories of men who chose the baby and…”

My chest clenches. “I gave you that choice for two reasons. One, because I don’t trust myself not to choose the baby. Two, because I trust you to chooseme.I cannot imagine those husbands who let their wives die to save their newborn child. If you don’t want me doing this again because you’re afraid of losing me, then we don’t do it again. We’ll have one child—which, honestly, might be more than enough—or we’ll come up with other solutions. Okay?”

He lifts me out of my seat and pulls me onto his lap and answers with a long hug.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We’re in Dawson City. Getting there isn’t as easy as it might seem. The airport is fifteen kilometers from downtown, and there’s no car rental agency. Taxi service is nonexistent off-season. Luckily, we do business here so often that we have a car stored nearby with people willing to make a few bucks driving us to it.

By the time we reach our hotel, the snow has died down enough for us to stash our bags in our hotel room and take Storm for a walk.

As much as we love Haven’s Rock, it’s wonderful to escape it now and then. Oh, sure, it’s nice to see a different landscape and tread new trails and indulge in all the luxuries of urban life. Hot running water! Fresh veggies in winter! More than one restaurant to choose from! But mostly, I enjoy the chance to just be a woman out for a walk with her guy and her dog. We aren’t “in charge” here. We can be ordinary and invisible people, and that is glorious.

We walk from one end of the town to the other. That sounds more impressive if I don’t admit it’s about a mile. Dawson Cityis a unique town. Some might say “odd,” but in the Yukon, that goes without saying. Dawson is known for its role in the Klondike gold rush and all the ways the town holds tight to that heritage, particularly for tourism.

There are only a handful of streets, in a near-perfect grid pattern. Along the main ones, most of the buildings date back to the gold rush. Dirt roads. Wooden sidewalks. False-front buildings that look straight out of a Western.

This being the tourism off-season, a lot of the shops and restaurants are closed, but I can still get a decaf latte—made with real milk—and some bakery treats. We grab necessities for the night—cold drinks, water, snacks—and then head back to the hotel.

After spending the flight mulling over my case, I’m itching to talk to Émilie, but I don’t want to make that call around Dalton. He’ll be going out in an hour or so to pick up dinner, so I’ve only texted her to say I need to speak again. At the hotel, I indulge in a long hot bath in an actual bathtub. By the time I’m done, Dalton is ready to talk dinner. We do that and call in an order, and then he takes Storm to go get it, leaving me to phone Émilie.

“I need to ask about another resident’s background,” I say. “I don’t need details on why he’s in Haven’s Rock. I won’t ask for the story of everyone I consider a suspect.”

“But you could, Casey,” Émilie says, with obvious patience. “I know you and Eric think it’s important not to know resident stories for their privacy, but I believe you are overthinking that. You are no longer council employees. This isyourtown.”

“I know, but we feel better keeping that wall in place wherever possible. We promised them that no one in town would know their backstory unless absolutely necessary.”

“And I have suggested we reword that to exclude management. But this is a discussion for another time. You and Eric have a suspect.”

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