Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
P arking my dad’s car in the lot near the small store outside of Bolton’s Landing that doubles as a diner and gas station reminds me why I’d never been brave enough to drive here back after I got my license. While no one else in the family except Boone had ever had an issue with the snow and ice, I’d always felt like driving here was suicidal.
Especially the mountain roads.
“Wow. Okay.” I sigh heavily and settle back in the driver’s seat, leaning my head against it with a groan. “That was awful. We’re having stuff delivered for the rest of…however long we’re here.” My tone is dry on the last part as I turn to look at Sitka, who certainly doesn’t mind the fact that according to every airline I’ve looked at, we’re stuck here.
For a week.
A week at least , apparently, since the storms are supposed to continue from tonight until Christmas. But I’m sure if my husky could talk, she’d inform me this is the Best Day Ever. Especially since there’s definitely going to be snow for her to bury herself in after tonight.
Lightly kicking open the door, I get out with a huff, my boots crunching on the gravel. Surprisingly, the cold hasn’t started bothering me like I thought it would after living in Illinois for so many years now. Maybe I’m just hot-blooded, and the snowy, long winters of the Adirondack Mountain area is where my body likes to call home.
In which case, I have bad news for my body, because we are not staying here longer than we have to. The longer we do, the more likely it is for something to show up. Like weird neighbors, a bear, a moose…
Or my stepbrothers.
My only relief—the one thing I can count on—is that like our parents, they can’t get here, either. Not with the storms coming so most of the roads are going to be impassable after tonight. They’d have to already be here to show up, and unless they’re hiding in the shed or the cellar, they certainly aren’t here. Thank God.
Sitka hops out beside me and I thank the joy of small towns that everywhere here is dog friendly. Whether they legally should be or not. I clearly remember my step-mom taking her little teacup Yorkie in here with her whenever she ran into town for supplies. And clearly, a two-year-old bouncing husky is exactly the same as a Yorkie…probably.
Well, I figure as long as she doesn’t murder anyone or destroy any merchandise, no one will really care. Her leash is in my pocket, but I have enough faith in her that I don’t think I’ll have to use it. Somehow, I’d lucked out and gotten a trainable husky who picked up obedience training and the rule of not leaving my radius really fast.
I like to think it’s because I saved her from the shelter, and not because I’m just a pushover who’s a convenient source of food.
Whistling, I open the door, walking in and letting the glass close behind me as Sitka falls into place, trotting at my side. My social anxiety takes that moment to wake up, and my skin tingles with the idea of the owner getting mad at me for bringing Sitka into somewhere she isn’t welcome.
Though when I glance at the cash register and see the large smile break out over the old man’s face as he comes around and holds his hands out in welcome, I’m able to let out a breath and remind myself the world isn’t ending.
“Gorgeous dog,” he murmurs, somehow beaming wider when Sitka gets my permission to go over and greet him. She sniffs his hands, then licks his fingers, her tail wiggling in a furry arc over her back. By the time he’s scratching her ears, she’s dancing in place, front paws lifting alternately in happiness. “Purebred? What’s her name?”
“I think she’s purebred. Or maybe mixed with malamute, if anything? I got her from the shelter and her name is Sitka.” A small smile twitches at my lips, and I scoop the handles of an old, blue plastic basket over my arm, hands in my pockets as I shiver in my hoodie.
The owner, who I vaguely remember from when I was a kid, looks up and studies my face, finally getting to his feet. “You need a real coat up here, miss,” he informs me with a friendly smile. “And gloves. Don’t I recognize you?”
“Uh, yeah.” God, this is one thing I’d been worried about. The town is small enough that everyone knows everyone, and we were here enough that most people around here grew to know my family. “I used to come here all the time with my dad and my step-mom. My dad’s name is Anthony Maxwell,” I offer, trying to look innocuously amiable instead of cold and nervous.
“Oh! Of course! He was supposed to be here this year too, right? He and Cheryl always spend Christmas up here with their two boys. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Nice to have you back. Your dad and mom back up at the house?” he asks, going to the counter and getting a small dog treat from behind it. With a nod from me he gives it to Sitka, who crunches it in seconds like the trash disposal she is.
“Step-mom,” I correct automatically. “And no, unfortunately. Their flight got canceled because of the snow storms starting tonight. So I’m actually here by myself for the next week or so.”
“That’s no good.” He shakes his head. “We’ll have to get you stocked up for Christmas. And you’ll have to come down on Christmas eve. We’re havin’ a little party at the diner for all the locals. Especially anyone who isn’t really celebrating the holidays. You’ll come, right?” he asks, as I try to place his name. I know I’ve heard it before, because I remember this man talking to me back when I was much shorter and he was less bald.
George, maybe?
Or Harry.
…Maybe Alfonso.
“Maybe,” I agree in a chipper voice that’s nothing like how I’m feeling. But I flash a practiced grin at maybe-Alfonso and head toward the shelves, any shelves really, to escape what threatens to become an awkward conversation.
Sitka doesn’t follow me, but I don’t ask her to. In my mind, she’s a worthy sacrifice to Possibly-George for me to chuck things in my basket in peace without having to commit to a Christmas party I’m totally not attending.
Pop-Tarts are my first priority, of course. Followed by K-cups and two different creamers, then sugar and a few other necessities like jelly beans and brownie mix. I figure for my meals I really will call in delivery and charge it to Dad’s card, in petty vengeance for sticking me here, alone, for the week over Christmas.
It’s not until I’m at the back of the store that I remember the news board, and only because I find myself looking at it without really registering what it is. Eyes narrowed, I walk up to the wall filled with old and new articles, trying to find some that I remember behind the glass.
Of course, every story has something to do with the area. Whether Lake George, the mountains, or Bolton’s Landing itself. I trail my fingers over the glass, tracing headlines and reading about marriages, celebrity appearances, and mysterious deaths or accidents that made the local paper. Or, in some cases, bigger regional papers.
It’s not until I find the newest articles that I actually start reading. And that’s only because the headline of an article from last year catches my attention and refuses to let me go.
HIKERS FOUND DEAD ON TONGUE MOUNTAIN TRAIL.
It takes a few minutes for me to place the location, but when I do, I realize it’s somewhere I’d been as a hiking-loving kid. That, of course, was before I learned the horrors of exercise and thought bounding outside through the cold and snow as the altitude increased could be considered fun.
I’ve learned better by now, of course. Glancing back, I find Could-Be-Harry leaning on the counter talking to a woman, his hand on Sitka’s head like she’s just part of the scenery here. Good for her. Winning over old people is one of her most useful skills, and it gives me the privacy to lean in closer to scan the article.
“No way,” I murmur to myself when I come across the words suspected foul play . There’s never been anything like a murder here that I’ve heard about. Hell, I don’t even think people break and enter in this area; it’s way too much trouble to get up and down the mountain roads. I definitely know the trail, I realize, when I read further. The fact becomes even clearer when I survey the grainy, black and white picture of the spot where the bodies were found.
I’ve been there before.
Multiple times, in fact. Enough to remember this exact overlook with its wooden fence and info-dump sign about local wildlife. It’s not exactly the most popular trail on Tongue Mountain, but it’s still well used enough that?—
“Crazy, right?” I levitate when the store owner speaks, leaning over my shoulder to squint at the article as I scoot away to create space between us. “It was a shock to everyone here when it happened last year. My nephew was the one to find the bodies.”
“Really?” Absently I whistle, calling Sitka to my side and glancing down when her warm, dry nose pokes into my palm. “Was it bad?”
The man sucks in a breath through his teeth, then looks over at me with a thoughtful, studying squint. “Real bad,” he says finally. As if he’s decided I can handle it. “Whoever did that to those hikers, they had a real nasty streak to ‘em. All kinds of marks and cuts. Chopped up into pieces and messed up all over. Like they wanted them to hurt. Like they enjoyed it.” He grimaces, then shakes his head. “Well, anyway. It’s been over a year and nothin’ like that has happened since. Not to rush ya, but are you ready to check out? I’m only asking because I want you to get back to the house before the snow hits.”
“Oh. Umm…” I blink owlishly down at my basket. “Yeah? I think? Let me just grab a couple more things, then I’m ready.” He nods and leaves as I add a few bottles of cream soda and Dr. Pepper to my basket, followed by some dill pickle chips and a box of popcorn. Truly, the essentials. Along with a box of hot chocolate and a gallon of milk, of course.
Hopefully-Harry barely gives me a look as he rings me up, and I’m sure he undercharges me when he gives me the total. Part of me wants to tell him to tack on gratuity. After all, it’s not my money I’m using when I put it on Dad’s tab.
But I’m not feeling that petty. At least not yet, when I have all week to explore the local delivery options.
Maybe someone around here can deliver a nice wagyu steak for Sitka.
“Thank you.” I smile again, hoping he can’t tell just how fake the look is, and hook the plastic bags in my hand. “I’ll see you again, I’m sure. Not like there’s any other store here.”
“Just be careful, all right? I know you used to basically be a local and all, so I don’t have to remind you, but the snow hits fast and piles up quick. Don’t want you gettin’ stuck somewhere with no way back and no service.” Belatedly, he picks up a flashlight from the display on the counter, and slips it and some batteries into my bag. “Just in case. On the house.”
“Oh, thank you. Seriously, I didn’t even think about it," I admit, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for forgetting something so important. “Have a good night.” Well, evening, I suppose, since the sun is still barely touching the trees. I probably have an hour or so of daylight left, and it’s only twelve minutes to the house. Hopefully, by the time the sun has set, I’ll have remembered how to get a fire going and be drowning in hot chocolate.
Out in the parking lot, I can’t help but groan when I see a shiny grey truck parked obnoxiously close to the driver’s side of my car. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, yanking open my passenger door and letting Sitka jump in before putting the bags in the back seat. “Learn to fucking park.” There's no one around to hear me, and for a few moments I fully consider opening the door of my dad’s car hard enough to leave a mark on the paint of the shiny, fancy truck.
But I don’t. Because I’m better than that today.
It takes a minute, but after a few mumbled curses and thoughts that maybe launching through the passenger side would’ve been easier, I manage to shimmy in the driver’s side. Still, with grit and determination, I finally slump down in the driver’s seat, panting and closing the door carefully without ever touching the truck.
“I hate people like you,” I tell no one as I start the car. “It’s wild how important you think you are and how you couldn’t park anywhere else in this whole damn parking lot.” But I refuse to take it personally. It’s not like whoever it is knows me and wants to make my day a bit more difficult.
It’s just a stupid coincidence and stupid, selfish ignorance.