Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
I t’s hard to sleep when all I want to do is take my keys and drive off this mountain with my dog. Well, that or stab my stepbrothers with whatever sharp object I can find. Either would do, though there’d be a certain kind of catharsis from killing them. Especially with how I feel when I’m staring at the backs of my eyelids or my ceiling as I flop around on my bed restlessly.
At first I don’t realize what the noises are. Except for the occasional laugh or yelp, anyway. Part of me thinks they might be fighting or wrestling or, I don’t know, committing a murder of pillows while practicing for their next crime.
Until Boone’s moan echoes through the whole damn house from wherever they are. My eyes fly open at the sound and I stare at the ceiling in horror, the light from outside giving me enough detail to actually have something to look at. “Shut uuuuup !” I yell, though the only response I get is the sound of Boone’s barking laugh.
If anything, after that, they’re even louder. Finally, when the sun is well and truly up, I can’t deal with it anymore. I lunge to my feet and strip out of my clothes, pulling on clean fleece-lined leggings and warm, thick joggers like I wore hiking the day before. This time I also put on my thermal shirt and an extra layer on top of it, before bundling up to brave the cold outside. Lastly, I pull my hair back, just so my wide headband sits more easily over my ears to keep them warm in the fluffy, furry interior.
“Time for our grand adventure of the day, Sitka,” I murmur, opening the door and peering out into the living room. There’s no one there, and I start to wonder if they’re in their room upstairs, sleeping off…
Well, sleeping it off.
But that leaves me the problem of?—
My gaze falls on the small table in the hallway where the bowl of keys has always sat, along with a lamp we used to keep on when we knew we’d be back late. Naturally, it’s the same lamp I remember Cheryl picking up from a farmer’s market years ago, and under it, plugged into a charger that’s not mine, is my phone.
It’s thoughtful.
Which means it had to be Fletcher’s doing and not Boone’s idea at all. He’s way too chaotic, forgetful, and uncaring to do anything like that. That’s especially obvious by the way my phone is actually plugged in and not just chucked onto the table to die a slow, battery depleted death.
Definitely Fletcher’s doing.
Absently, I unplug it, jamming my phone and attached wallet into my pocket, but then my eyes fall on the bowl of keys and I hesitate. While I can’t really drive a manual, that’s not the only option available to me, if I want to be sneaky and do something I’m not really supposed to. Dad’s truck is gone, obviously, since they aren’t here, but Cheryl’s Jeep is here, judging by the fact her keys are in the bowl next to a set I don’t recognize.
“You shouldn’t,” I mutter to myself, my fingers already inching toward them. “You really shouldn’t. She’d have a fit if she knew…” But she isn’t here, and frankly, I’m not sure I care.
Especially once I realize she definitely knew and helped plan my stepbrothers showing up here without my knowledge or permission. That’s the last push I need to grab her keys out of the bowl. After that, it’s easy for me to slip out of the house, this time making sure to be careful on the stairs as I head down them to the driveway.
Even thinking about my embarrassing fall is enough to make my head ache, and I reach up to rub my fingers over the tender spot at the back of my skull. I wince, wishing I grabbed some aspirin or something , and also yearn for another of whatever Boone gave me early this morning. After all, I’m pretty sure that’s the reason I got any sleep at all.
“We’re totally stealing right now,” I tell Sitka, opening the driver’s door and letting her spring into the passenger seat before I slide in as well. Her paws have already tracked melting snow into the interior, and the petty part of me is pretty sure I won’t be cleaning it up. It’ll serve Cheryl right for ruining my entire holiday season.
I’ve already decided to never speak to her again. My dad is a harder subject, since he’s the only blood family I have and he’s…my dad. But I’m still pissed as hell at him, which is why I won’t be calling him back until I can do something other than rant at him.
“You aren’t gonna die,” I tell myself as I carefully creep down the long driveway, punching the button for snow mode and making my life infinitely easier in the nice car with its heated seats and steering wheel. I have to admit, Cheryl has good taste in vehicles. Driving this is much easier than my car in the snow, especially with the drive-assist.
Maybe I could get back to real civilization if I take her car.
The trip into town normally only takes about ten minutes, but today it takes over double that, due to the road conditions and my panic whenever the snow gets deep enough for me to drown in it. But finally I creep into the parking lot of the small store I visited two days ago and lean back in my seat to let out a sigh of relief. “You aren’t dead.” My voice is soft and tired in the enclosed space, and I look over at Sitka as I say it.
She looks thrilled with every single development that’s happened. But she’s an optimist, not a realist. And as the pessimist between us, I’m the one grumbling and muttering as I kick open the door with my winter boot and wait for her to jump out into the parking lot.
Sitka wastes no time before diving into the nearest snow drift, rolling around like this is the absolute best day of her life. Though I suppose it is, since we never get this much snow in Illinois. For a few moments I stand there, head tilted to the side, and tiredly watch my favorite dog in the world have a good time in her element.
I really do love her to death, and she sort of saved my life while I was in a dark place.
And I wonder if they know about that, too. I wonder if they know about the prank, the humiliation, and how it had been briefly posted on my college’s facebook page for everyone to see. Thankfully one of the moderators had been quick to shut it down, but still. It didn’t matter, really.
Enough people saw. Enough people knew . And my three ‘friends’ who caused it certainly weren’t quiet about it.
Giving Sitka a few more minutes, I look down at the snow crunched under my feet, realizing it’s been years since I’ve had this kind of holiday season. While I’m not sure I approve of Boone’s new nickname for me in any way—and I want to punch him in the face every time he says it— snow bunny is pretty apt for me if it’s not taken in the urban dictionary context. After all, I’m certainly not hanging out at a ski resort in cute clothes to take selfies and get guys.
In fact, I’ve never been to a ski resort in my life.
Finally, my steps take me back into the store, and Sitka zooms in after a moment’s consideration. I’m sure she remembers the attention she got here before, and when a small child sees her and yelps with excitement, I can tell she’s going to continue having a great day.
Maybe-George is at the counter again, and he smiles, his face lined in tired wrinkles, when he sees me. Some of them are smile lines, I realize, and it occurs to me he’s probably spent much of his life smiling. Good for him. I hope it continues that way.
“Hello there, Miss Ma’am,” he greets, rustling around in his drawer for his bag of dog treats. “I’m surprised to see you made it into town. Don’t tell me you drove that little car of your dad’s?”
“Nah, I took Cheryl’s Jeep,” I assure him, watching Sitka run from one person to the other in her quest for world domination through affection. “I, uh…I was hoping to see if you knew any special insider information about the weather. Like, when I should be able to leave? Do you think I could…” I trail off as he shakes his head, my heart sinking.
“It’ll be a good week or so until the roads from here are clear, I think. Sorry about that. I know your dad couldn’t make it up here, so I’m sure you’d rather go home.”
His words make me narrow my eyes, bemused as I try to remember when I said that to him. “Did I tell you that the other day?” I ask finally. “I think I have the memory of a frozen goldfish up here.”
“No, ma’am.” He rubs Sitka’s ears. “Fletcher came down early this morning for coffee. Around five or so. He said he was waitin’ on a pickup order and we talked for a bit. He’s lucky I get up that early when the weather’s this bad.” Maybe-Harry chuckles softly, still smiling and positive. “At least you’ve got your brothers, right? They’ll keep you from being too alone.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s uh, yeah. Yep. I’m really thrilled they came up here.” It’s hard to inject false positivity into my tone, but I think I manage. Tiredly, I grab a plastic wrapped honey bun and a bottle of chocolate milk, putting it on Fletcher’s tab before I take it to one of the small tables near the front of the store where the elderly regulars like to hang out. Today it’s just me and a pair of old ladies loudly talking about their kids and how they haven’t come to visit them, but I tune them out.
This is way too much interaction, too early. Everything since four am has been too much , and I’m just exhausted. I’m still holding out hope that Maybe-George is wrong, that there’s a way for me to at least drive down to literally anywhere that has a hotel to get away from this place. Unfortunately, according to my social media scrolling and Googling, his weather senses had tingled correctly. The storms have the roads down the mountains blocked with no time for them to be safe.
Most of the roads are even closed , which I haven’t seen in forever. There are pictures of wrecks, of cars and semis along empty highways, and that only makes me groan and thump my forehead against the small, chipped table I sit at.
Sitka woofs, caring little for my problems, and I absently open up the plastic, giving her a chunk of honey bun before shoving the next piece into my mouth. Well, okay. So I’m stuck here for…a few days. Maybe a few more. But I don’t have to just sit around at the house and wait for my stepbrothers to make my life hell. I can at least make it to town, obviously, and probably a few other places nearby with Cheryl’s Jeep.
At least that way I can create some space between us, and give myself the time to think about everything. Especially the part about Fletcher and Boone being killers .
Because no matter what else they’ve done, I’ve never taken them for killers. I never could’ve expected them to sink to that level, and a big part of me just wants to know why. Why murder three random people on a mountain trail last year? Why take pictures of it, unless they’re just for souvenirs?
And why show me, when there’s every possibility I’ll go to the police?
Somehow I end up back at the trailhead where the murders took place, though I have no idea how I’d driven here instead of literally anywhere else. But I don’t get out of the car right away. No matter how much Sitka protests and obviously wants me to do otherwise. I sit in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel with the engine idling.
I shouldn’t get out.
Really I should, I don’t know, go stay with a friend for the week. Though I guess to do that, I’d have to make a friend in this area first, and that seems almost as bad as dealing with Fletcher and Boone. The lengths I’ll go to in order to avoid social obligation are legendary, and if there was some kind of award for it, I’m sure I’d win. Or at least be in the top ten percent of participants.
“This is a bad idea. Clearly I have brain damage from this morning,” I tell Sitka, who really couldn’t care less. She’s looking out the window, her paws doing a little tippy-tap on the passenger seat under her. When she notices me looking at her, Sitka gives a small woof of disapproval, tongue hanging as she pants with excitement. “Okay, okay. But I really wish you’d learn to have better taste in people. You could’ve at least bitten Boone, instead of rolling over for his attention.”
I know she doesn’t actually know what I’m saying, but it still seems like she gives me a plaintive, unfriendly glare at my words. “Fine.” I sigh at last, opening up my door. I don’t even get to stand up before Sitka lunges over me, stomping on my bladder for good measure as she launches like a torpedo into the snow beyond the parking lot.
I don’t belong here.
Yet I still find myself traipsing up the trail again, my feet taking me on the same path I’d been just yesterday, before this trip had gone to shit.
Before I knew this would be the worst Christmas ever. Though the only thing that makes it worse than the winter I got frostbite is that particular episode had happened three days after Christmas.
Today it feels like the walk takes me a lot less time to navigate up to the overlook, even in the deep snow threatening to soak in over the tops of my boots, but I know that can’t be true. Especially with me having to slog through the snow, but my mind is racing fast enough to eat up the two or so miles in the bright midday sun that can’t even melt the top layer of snow, given that it’s pretty damn cold out here.
But I like the cold.
Maybe I really am a born snow bunny, doomed to always come back to the mountains where I was born and somewhat raised. I’ve always preferred New York to Illinois, in terms of weather and location. But the idea of sharing a state with my stepbrothers has kept me away for ages. Just like it will again once the snow melts and the blizzards stop long enough for me to get a flight back.
I don’t pause once I’m at the top, and my legs burn a little less this time than last time. Instead, I walk straight over to the lean-to that’s only slightly protected from the heaps of snow around it, sitting down on the worn bench carved into the back.
It really is pretty here.
Everything up here is pretty, especially in the winter. Lake George is rough today, which is unsurprising, and with the sun out, it looks like the ground is covered in diamonds. Other than my footsteps, the snow is undisturbed. It’s peaceful.
It’s perfect.
Sitka zooms past me, disrupting the perfect smoothness of the white ground and sending powder spraying in her wake. I snort, shaking my head, but before I can start a one-sided conversation with my best friend, I hear snow crunching from behind the lean-to.
I don’t turn. I don’t really need to, since there are only two people I think it could be. My suspicions are proven correct when Fletcher sits down beside me on the bench, prompting me to slouch back against the wood behind me.
Neither of us says a word. He sits straight, his posture as proper as always, while I grind my heels in the snow and just look at the lake. “Where’s Boone?” I sigh finally. “I notice he’s not circling you like a sad puppy off his leash.”
“Around somewhere, I guess.” Fletcher doesn’t look at me when he speaks, and his voice is just loud enough to be heard. For the first time, I feel the cold, and I shudder, teeth chattering briefly. That finally gets Fletch’s attention and he surveys me with blue eyes as cold as the snow around us.
“You’re not used to this weather anymore,” he observes. “You used to be cold-proof when we were kids.” I open my mouth to say something but he holds up one gloved finger. “Don’t bring up the shed again, princess. There’s only so many times that it works in an argument, and we’ve apologized more than once.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You didn’t?—”
But I don’t expect him to turn, slamming his hand into the wall behind me with his face only inches from mine. “Yes, we did. That year and the year after. We’ve said sorry to you, but you just don’t want to hear it. Maybe, I don’t know…” He tilts his head to the side. “Maybe we just aren’t speaking the same language.”
All I can do is survey his face, completely unsure of how to respond as Fletcher invades my personal space so thoroughly we’re breathing the same air. I feel the puff of his breath on my lips, and when my eyes dip down to look at his full mouth, I know I’ve lost. Worse than that, Fletcher knows he’s won.
“Did you do it?” I murmur, voice soft and barely audible. “I mean did you really, actually kill those people?”
“Yeah, Conor.” He reaches up with his other hand, tucking my hair behind my ear and adjusting my beanie. “We killed those people last year.”
I expect myself to panic more. For the fear and the revulsion to knock me over. But instead, I just swallow it back, my feelings muted, somehow. Like it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. Somehow I take a breath, then another, before finally blinking and getting the courage to ask, “ Why ?”
“Oh, princess,” he coos with a sigh, a light smile touching his lips. “You’re not that good at putting together the pieces of the puzzle we made, are you? All this work we did, and you can’t tell it’s a Christmas miracle, just for you.” When I just stare at him he chuckles softly under his breath, and his breath ghosts against my lips again. “I’ll tell you when I don’t think it’ll scare you away,” he tells me at last. “Until then…”
Fletcher leans forward, hand shifting so he can once again wrap his fingers around my throat. He presses me back, until my shoulder blades hit the wood of the lean-to and all I can think about is how pretty his eyes are and how fucking good he smells.
He’s going to kiss me again. Hard or soft, I don’t know. Will he kiss me like he kisses Boone? Or will he have another brand of kisses, just for me?
And why am I going to let him?
Knocking on the back of the lean-to makes me jump and Fletcher sits up with a sigh, rolling his pretty eyes. “What, Boone?” he asks levelly, never looking away from me.
“Sorry to interrupt the two of you in what I’m sure is a really hot soft-core scene and all but, uh…” I hear him kick snow against the wood. “We have company of the law enforcement variety. And you know I’m not so great with not saying stupid shit when it matters.”