Page 3 of These Cold Strangers

I left ten years ago. I haven’t been back.

Driving in, nothing has changed. But that’s not true. Everything has changed. I am not the same girl who ran away in the night. I am strong. Capable. Independent.

Healed.

That doesn’t mean I will seek out the people who drove me from this aerie.

Once, I’d thought of spending my life here. Get my degrees and teach at Goode. Find a nice guy, settle down, and have some kids. I did not need a life any bigger than the one this mountain could provide.

Now, having lived in the city, I know I was never going to be happy here. Seeing the church spires and white-columned houses lining the streets, the baby carriages and dog walkers, it all seems forced. Fake. DC is real. Hard. Ruthless. It’s why I’m here, this ruthlessness. A bunch of people left a man to die without a second glance. That is the world I’ve chosen over the feral domesticity of my youth.

Though I told myself I wasn’t going to, I drive the rental car past my childhood home. The white stone two-story with the formerly white picket fence and the green shutters—green because I’d begged my father to imitate the house in a movie I loved—is dirty and sad. Empty. Unloved.

Of course it is. There’s been no one to attend to its many demands. No one but the ghosts of my family lost to a maniac’s knife.

Blood. Shattered glass. Bodies. Screams.

I don’t slow. I don’t think. I drive to Todd’s house, five miles and a lifetime away. His parents will know where I can find him.

The house is red brick, smaller than my expansive childhood home, but perfectly maintained. Winter camellias line the fence, each face with its perfectly uniform pink petals a tiny work of art turned to the sun. The yard has been put to bed for winter, the leaves raked, freshly chopped firewood stacked between two trees on the far side of the lot. Smoke rises from the chimney. Someone is home.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I park on the street, lock the car, and stride to the gate. It’s on the latch but unlocked—of course, it is. Marchburg has never been the sort of town where people lock their doors. Even after the murder of that Goode girl, even after the murder of my family. That is the sort of thing that happens to other people.

The walkway is flagstone, and my boots clatter pleasantly on the path. Maybe I am making noise to warn them I am coming; maybe I am just hurrying. As I reach the porch stairs, the front door opens wide—a very Marchburg welcome.

A boy stands in the doorway. Not a boy, a man. A handsome man with broad shoulders, long legs, and a rugged face. It is not Mr.Preis. It is Todd.

How lucky am I?

CHAPTER FOUR

Todd watches me curiously, trying to place me, his brows furrowed in confusion. He won’t remember me from school, though he might recall my face from the newspaper reports. But my hair is highlighted blonde now, and I’ve lost the glasses and taken up yoga, so I’m rangier than I was in school. Anything to try and blend into the DC world, to escape the little girl who loved movies about fathers and brides and did homework at the kitchen table while her mother cooked dinner.

I smile and start to stick out my hand, but before I can say anything, he grins and shocks me.

“Addison Blake. Is that really you?”

“You remember me?”

“How could I forget?” he says, grinning again, and something sparks deep in my belly. He was only a boy when I knew him. This stranger is a man, and an incredibly handsome one at that. I feel bad for the cybersex joke now.

“I’m surprised you recognize me.”

“Of course I do. You were only two grades behind me. And your ... What in the world are you doing here?” he asks, now slightly flustered at the almost mention of the murders.

What in the worldamI doing here? Chasing down a man who clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed, planning to use my local notoriety to gain his trust?

“I’m just down for the day.”

“Where do you live now? I heard you moved away.”

“I did, I did. I live in DC. That’s why I’m here, actually. The artist you saved. I’m a journalist. I wanted to see if you’d tell me the story. You walked away—”

“No.” His face shutters. Gone is the welcoming excitement. He looks furious for a moment, a flash of black anger, then his face clears as if he’s realized how rude he’s being. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. Anyone would have done the same.”

“That’s not exactly true. No one else bothered. He lay there for hours, and people simply walked past or stole his things. You, however. You stopped, and you saved him. Everyone is talking about it. I thought maybe—”

“No way, Addison. I’m not doing an interview. I don’t want to have anything to do with this. Do you understand?”

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