“Fair point. We need to get back in there.”

As they hurried back into the front room, Bodhi looked up. “Hank’s right. That’s blood on her dress. The good news is, I don’t think it’s hers. She’s not actively bleeding, as far as I can tell.”

“Should we move her?” Naya asked. “At least to the couch?”

“No, not yet. She’s coming around. Let’s make sure she doesn’t have any back or neck injuries that we can’t see in case we have to stabilize her spine first—I think that’s unlikely; she did walk here, after all. But let’s be cautious. Someone could get a glass of water to have handy when she comes to,” Bodhi suggested.

Chris nodded and slipped into the kitchen.

Thank heavens they happened to have a doctor in the group. Sure, Bodhi’s patients were usually dead, but hewasa doctor.

Aroostine was still at the window. “I don’t see anyone else in the woods,” she said without turning around. “But the snow’s picking up. Pretty soon, it’s going to be a whiteout. She’s lucky she got inside when she did.”

Chris returned with a glass of water as the woman stirred, moaning. She tried to push herself up, but Bodhi stopped her with a gentle hand.

“Wait. Don’t move. Are you hurt?”

She blinked at him, fear and confusion on her face.

“I’m a doctor,” he said softly. “I want to make sure you don’t have any injuries before you get up.”

She shook her head. “No. No, I’m fine. Did I … faint?” Her voice was raw and raspy.

“It seems so.”

Chris pressed the glass into her hands.

She took a small sip before giving it back to him with trembling hands. “Thanks.” She turned to Bodhi. “I’m really not hurt. I can stand up.”

He helped her to her feet, guided her to the closest chair, and gingerly lowered her onto the seat. Carl tossed him a blanket from the back of the loveseat.

As he arranged the afghan throw over the woman’s shoulders, Maisy exclaimed, “Well, if none of y’all are gonna ask, I will. Whose blood is all over your dress, and why were you running through a snowstorm screaming like a banshee?”

It was as if Maisy’s question had jarred loose the woman’s memory. She gasped and leaped to her feet, the blanket puddling on the floor around her ankles. “Oh my God, Rex! Rex is dead!”

CHAPTER2

Three hours earlier

Leo raised his collar against the chill as he stepped out of the van and jogged across the wide circular driveway to the gracious front entrance of the Silverwood Mansion. He ducked inside, grateful for the blast of warm air that greeted him.

A tall, angular man with a full head of thick white hair looked up from the reception desk with a mischievous smile. “Ah, Mr. Connelly. Welcome to Silverwood Acres.”

“Thanks.” He allowed his surprise that the host had accurately guessed his identity to register on his face.

A cheerful woman shook her head from behind the desk, a wide grin crinkling her bright eyes. “Oh, don’t be too impressed by John. We only booked two parties for the weekend, and the other group’s already arrived.”

Leo’s laughter echoed as he crossed the large reception room to approach the desk. “Well played. And you must be Hatty and John Carlisle.”

“Guilty as charged,” John boomed.

The mansion, lit by wall sconces and the soft glow of an Art Deco chandelier, was, if anything, even grander and more elegant than it had appeared in the photographs he’d seen in the write-up about the renovation of Silverwood Acres Estates last summer. After buying the historic property in 2021, the Carlisles spent the better part of two years restoring the majestic six-bedroom manor to its original glory. They’d also transformed three outbuildings on the property—a large shepherd’s cottage, the farm manager’s home, and a former barn—into elegant standalone units suitable for large parties, with sleep accommodations for groups ranging from six to fourteen.

Hatty peered around him, looking toward the entrance. “I thought your party was all arriving together.”

“We are. I mean, we have. The others are waiting in the van. Given the turn the weather’s taken, I thought I’d get the key to the stone house, and we’d have the driver take us over to drop off our luggage rather than make everyone brave the cold.”

“A wise plan.” Hatty’s smile faded. “The forecast’s gotten worse in the last hour. Yes, you should all get settled. Then John will drive over to pick you up for the cocktail hour here in the library. We’ve got a station wagon, so it’ll take just a few trips.”