Chapter 10 Odin
Damn snow. White fury swirls and dances beyond the pool house window, each gust plastering thick, wet flakes against the glass.
The morning news, a monotonous drone of doom and gloom, declares it a ‘historic’ snowstorm.
Bullshit, I think, New England does winter.
Snow happens. Yet, even my cynical side can't deny this is more than a dusting.
The wind, a howling banshee, rattles the window panes, swallowing the world in a white oblivion.
Mom called an hour ago, her voice bright with Stevie-induced cheer.
Riley is over too. My daughter, predictably, is in snow-day heaven at Grandma’s, her favorite refuge when the white stuff piles up.
Good. Stevie is safe, warm, and blissfully unaware of my current internal turmoil.
Here, in the pool house, I am fine. Solid walls, warmth radiating from the vents, enough provisions to weather a minor apocalypse.
Besides, duty calls. Project Redwood Hills demands my presence, schedule be damned.
Contractors are due tomorrow, ready to wrestle the pool into spa-worthy submission.
No early blizzard will derail that train.
Still…a feeling persists, a less logical, more…
insistent pull. Nicola. Riley’s voice echoes in my head, “determined to ride out the storm in that old Victorian.” Stubborn woman.
Beautiful, infuriatingly optimistic, stubborn woman.
Stay away, I command myself. For Riley’s sake.
Keep it professional. Especially now, when I’m clawing my way back to solid ground, building something real from the ashes.
Something that won’t shatter with the next tragedy.
But the image of her in that drafty Victorian, battling a wheezing furnace and a leaky roof, snags at me.
Ridiculous. She is likely fine. Independent.
Capable. Hasn’t she been single-handedly wrestling that house back from the brink?
She has it under control. Probably. Except…
Riley’s casual aside about “spotty heating” worms its way into my thoughts.
And that place is ancient. Basements in old houses… cozy isn’t exactly the operative word.
Damn it. Resolve crumbling, I grab my coat, yanking it over the thick sweater already clinging to my skin. Stevie is safe. Mom is happy. A quick check on Miss Williams won’t hurt. Neighborly concern. That’s all.
Boots crunch on the porch steps as I plunge into the swirling white chaos.
Wind, a physical force, bites at my exposed skin.
Snow, already ankle-deep, rapidly deepens.
The short walk to Nicola’s feels like a trek across the tundra.
Her house, a hazy silhouette against the whiteout, glows with warm light from the windows.
Power, at least, holds. A small victory.
I trudge up the walkway, snowdrifts already sculpting themselves against the porch railings.
The front door… a dark rectangle against the white facade. I knock and the door moves, slightly ajar. Not wide open, but definitely unlatched. Odd. Nicola, meticulous to a fault, wouldn’t leave her door unsecured, especially in this weather.
“Nicola?” I call, stepping into the small entryway. Silence, thick and unsettling, presses in. “Nicola?” Louder now, my voice echoing in the stillness.
Still nothing. Only the muffled roar of the wind and the ancient house groaning under the storm’s assault. A prickle of unease, sharp and cold, traces its way down my spine. Something is wrong.
“Nicola!” I yell again, my voice echoing through the quiet house.
Then, a sound. Faint, muffled, but undeniably there. A rhythmic thumping, emanating from… downstairs? The basement. My gut clenches, a fist of ice tightening around my insides. Something is definitely wrong.
I l ocate the basement door off the front hall, a heavy wooden slab that looks old and worn. I push the door open with all of my weight and step onto the landing, peering down into the shadowed stairwell.
“Nicola?” I call again, my voice echoing down the steps.
“Odin?” Her voice, strained and laced with panic, floats up from the darkness. “Is that you? Help!”
Relief, potent and overwhelming, surges through me. She is here. Alive. But fear clings to her voice, sharp and unmistakable. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Basement!” she cries. “Trapped!
Trapped in the basement? Jesus. Before I can ask another question, the basement door, released from my grip, slams shut with a heavy thud. Darkness swallows the stairwell, plunging me into near blackness. A click echoes, the sound of the latch catching.
“Oh no!” Nicola’s voice, closer now, but still strained, reaches me.
Shit. Trapped in a basement, in the dark, with a panicked Nicola Williams. Just perfect.
“Damn it,” The air in the basement hits me – cold, damp, heavy with the scent of mildew and dust. A single bare bulb casts a weak, yellowish light, barely piercing the gloom. And then I see her.
Nicola stands in the far corner. Her face, pale and smudged with dirt, etched with terror. Green eyes, wide and frantic, lock onto mine as I approach.
“Nicola!” I rush towards her, relief warring with a surge of protective anger. “What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Odin! Thank God!” she gasps, her breath ragged. “I’m stuck! The door slammed shut. Crazy! I usually prop it open. Why didn't I?” Her voice sounds a bit tight.
Her breathing sounding a bit shaky. Panic attack territory. I need to get her out of here, then unravel this whole damn mess.
“Okay, okay, breathe,” I command, forcing a calm into my voice I don’t entirely feel. Reaching her, I place my hands on her arms, grounding her. She is freezing, even through the thick sweater.
“I told you it was stuck!” Nicola’s voice trembles, rising again.
“I know, I know,” I soothe, turning back to face her, forcing reassurance into my tone. “It’s okay. We’ll get it open.” We’ll get it open. As if I have a magic key hidden in my pocket.
And that’s when the absurdity of the situation truly hits me. Trapped. In a basement. With Nicola Williams. Of all the goddamn things.