Page 23 of Cold as Hell

“Twenty hours of darkness also screws with sleep schedules,” he says.

“It does. Which leads to my question… Have you discussed your sleep problems with others? In casual conversation?”

“You mean someone says they’re having trouble sleeping, and I say I do, too? Sure. That’s one way of showing empathy. A cornerstone of my therapy. Learn to show it and eventually it becomes second nature. Whether that’s actual empathy or just faking it, I don’t know, but it does help me connect with people.”

He pulls one stockinged foot under him. “The trick is to find the right balance. If someone says they’re having trouble sleeping, and I say I suffer from severe insomnia, that’s not empathy. It’s one-upmanship. If someone says they’re having serious insomnia, and I say I understand because I sometimes have trouble sleeping, that’s downplaying their experience.” He gives a wry smile. “I know all the tricks. Which means, in most cases, it’s just residents saying they have trouble sleeping, and I just say I do too, and we exchange tips.”

“Would you ever have mentioned the Restoril?”

He shakes his head. “If they were suffering from real insomnia, I’d say to speak to April, and I’d never mention Restoril. It’s like someone saying they have a headache and I suggest morphine. It’s way more than they need.”

He pulls up his other foot, cross-legged now. “I can guarantee I’ve never mentioned Restoril specifically. But in a conversation about sleep problems, could I have admitted I take something? Yes.”

“If you can think of anyone you mentioned sleep issues to—at all—that’s really what I need.”

“The only thing that comes to mind is a conversation over dinner, maybe a few weeks ago. It was a full table in the restaurant, a six-seater, and we got talking about how it’s nice that the days are getting longer. Someone… Oh, wait. It was actually Kendra. She said she sleeps better during the longer days, because she can close the shutters at night and open them in the morning, simulating a regular sundown and sunup. We all got to talking about sleep strategies. A few people said they need a little chemical help now and then. I probably said I do too, and there was some comparing of sleep aids, but I pretended I don’t know what I’m taking.”

“So Kendra was there, and…”

“It was all staff. Kendra. Me. Gunnar. Brian and Devon. Maybe Yolanda? If not Yolanda, then Kenny, but he usually eats with April, so I think it was Yolanda.”

“Anyone sitting nearby?”

“Close enough to overhear us? I didn’t pay any… No. We were talking about the longer days because it was a late dinner and it was still light outside. There’d been a staff meeting, and Phil asked the restaurant to stay open. You and Eric and the others ate at your place. At the restaurant it was just us. Even the servers were gone.”

“And that’s the only time you mentioned taking something to help you sleep.”

“As far as I know.”

Time for our walk. Or, in my case, drag. The most annoying part of that is that if I weren’t only in the sled because I’m pregnant, I’d have enjoyed it, relaxing and indulging in the ridiculousness of it. In other words, I’m just being cranky.

I’m riding in an adult version of a toddler sled, with a curved back for me to rest against. The interior is piled high with furs, and Storm is moving briskly, having recovered from her temporary exhaustion. Pulling me—even with my added weight—is easy on a trail that’s practically an ice-sled run, the well-trodden snow having partly melted and refrozen.

Dalton and I are quiet as we leave town. We plan to discuss the case, which means we need to be out of earshot. I hunker down into the furs and lean back to gaze up at the endless canopy of evergreens with a gray sky above.

Kenny and Dalton might have designed this sled for me, but it will be perfect in the years to come. It’ll let us take our child out on long winter walks, with Storm having no difficulty pulling the lighter weight. My mind shifts to next year, when I’ll be in this sled again, holding a bundled baby.

Will our child be content to relax against me and take in the nature around them? Or will they be squirming to get out and crawl through the snow?

With Dalton and me as parents, the answer is probably that it’ll depend on their mood. We can both be still, lost in our thoughts and in the world. And we can both be restless, wanting to get out and interact with that world.

I struggle to indulge in dreams like this, especially after two miscarriage scares. Dalton and I have pored over the books, and we’ve tracked exactly how far along our baby would be if they were born this week, next week, two weeks from now. We’re so damned close now that I want to relax. In mere days, the baby wouldn’t even be considered premature.

But that presumes the baby has developed properly, and I worry that I haven’t gained enough weight for that. It also presumes a normal delivery, and that’s never a guarantee, especially if they come early.

Deep breaths. I’m going to let myself dream of next winter, when I’ll have a baby on my lap and it’ll be Dalton pulling the sled, whipping us along with Storm bringing up the rear—

Dalton grabs the ropes, tugging Storm to a halt. We go still and listen. A sound comes. One that sounds remarkably like our sled, whooshing along the icy snow.

“Jacob!” Dalton calls.

“Here!”

Dalton relaxes and gives Storm the signal that she can take a break. In a few minutes Raoul appears, pulling a flatter version of our sled, with the morning’s hunting catch under a secured tarp.

Bringing up the rear is a man with long light brown hair, a thick beard, and steel-gray eyes. Two years younger than Dalton, Jacob is, as everyone jokes, “the nice brother.” He has his shadows—trauma from life after their parents died, before he reunited with Dalton—but in Jacob, it mostly manifests as shyness and a preference for forest life. Both his personality and his past make him a perfect match for Nicole.

“Good hunting?” Dalton asks as he peeks under the tarp.

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