Prologue
Jason-Present
Eyes Don’t Lie- Kingfisher
If the rain is a cry for help, then the snow is a peaceful slumber.
The world is asleep when it snows this much. I can’t explain it the way I want to but when the world is covered in white powder, it’s like it’s hibernating with the animals, recharging for spring. Renewing itself before the onslaught of insanity that comes with the season and the reawakened life.
But I prefer the winter. In winter, the roads close and no one can get to the house from town which is how I prefer it. I know my brother would rather have company in the winter, but not me. As much as I love my brother, sometimes I wish even he was gone between November and March. Then I would truly be surrounded by blissful silence.
Other times, like when the pipes freeze and the meat runs out and I need help keeping the cabin in working order, I’m grateful he’s with me.
I took my truck hunting last night knowing the weather would worsen while I was away. While driving back through the multiple feet of snow, all I can hear is the whir of the motor and I wish it was silent so I could enjoy the deafening quiet of the snowstorm that signals the start of our isolation.
I hate people. I don’t like being around them. They don’t understand me.And even if I did speak to them, they still wouldn’t get it. It’s easier being silent. And it’s easier being alone.
My brother, Dylan, understands me. But he’s chatty and when he gets drunk he makes comments about how he wished I would speak to him. He thinks my refusal to talk is a direct insult to him. But I’ve come to learn he only thinks that way when he’s had too many beers. Otherwise, he seems more understanding than most.
I was shit out of luck hunting all day, all the animals were hunkered down for the storm so I am coming home empty-handed. We still have meat in the freezer and lots of canned goods, but it won’t last forever before I’ll need to hunt again. Dylan wanted a new pelt for the landing upstairs since he complains about the floor being too cold when he goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Guess he’ll have to suffer cold feet for a while.
The headlights of the truck illuminate the thick flakes coming down and they kind of remind me of stars whizzing by. I’m going as fast as I can on this thing so I can get out of the cold. It’s not until I pass the black Honda Civic in a blur of motion that I even see it. In a fluid maneuver, I make a U-turn to head back for the car in the snow bank.
What the fuck is someone doing out here in this storm? Don’t they know the roads will be covered in three feet of snow by morning? People don’t realize this about Oregon snow, but it isn’t as dry and powdery as snow in the rest of the country. It’s more like slush; which means most of this will be ice in the morning.
I almost didn’t see the car because half of it is buried in the snow bank as if it did a nose dive into the pile of white powder, while the other half has a light dusting of snow on the trunk that keeps getting swept away by the howling wind. I could’ve easily missed it, but the beams of the headlights reflecting off the back window caught my eye.
I pull up next to the car and leave the truck running while I inspect the vehicle. The front door is buried in snow but the back driver’s side door looks like it could be opened with some brute force.
I pull on the handle but it’s locked.Great. I try the driver’s door to see if it’s unlocked but nothing. And it’s too dark to see inside to tell how manypeople are in there, if any. Maybe whoever was in the accident got out and walked for help. That would be a death sentence but people lose all sense of logic when the snow hits Oregon.
I decide to do the only thing left: break the window. I grab the Remington from inside the cab of the truck and bang the butt of the rifle into the glass in one sharp, controlled motion, shattering the glass enough for me to push through and unlock the door from the inside.
People always assume car windows shatter like regular windows, breaking into sharp jagged points and completely coming apart from the frame. They don’t realize the design is different to prevent major injuries. The glass spiderwebs from the point of impact into millions of tiny pieces so the glass is no longer sturdy. It’s flexible enough to push with your hand and crack away.
Unlocking the door from the inside, I start to pull on the handle from the outside and give it my full force to pry it open. The snow is too thick, though, preventing the door from opening further. It’ll only get worse with each passing minute. Whoever was driving this car really got themselves stuck.
I start digging the snow out and away from the bottom of the door closest to the hinges since the car is on an incline down into the bank.Fuck it’s freezing. But I think I got enough moved to pry it open. Bracing the sole of my boot against the car, I grab the handle and yank as hard as I can, straightening my leg for leverage. Thankfully, it’s enough force to peel the door open wide enough for me to slip inside.
No one in the backseat, but I see a head of ash blonde hair tied up in a bun on top in the driver’s seat. Whoever it is, they’re the only one in the car besides me, slumped over the steering wheel and the deflated airbag.
As soon as I move my torso over the center console, I press her shoulders back to get a better look at who it is and the damage done. It takes me a minute to see past the blood and scrapes, but then the pouty lips and doll-like eyes—even closed—jar my memory.
I can’t fucking believe it.
Why is Mara Meyers crashed on the side of the road in a fucking snowstorm?
Chapter One
Mara-Senior year of high school
Used To Be Young-Miley Cyrus
I hate potatoes. Everyone is obsessed with potatoes in any and all forms but I can’t stand them. The starchy texture, the bitter flavor. Even smothered in cheese I don’t like them. This is something you’d expect my boyfriend to know.
Bryce sets a tray of cafeteria food for me on the table. I asked him to get me lunch and he brought me an egg salad sandwich, a bag of chips, and tater tots. I’m fairly certain that I’ve told him several times I don’t like potatoes. Yet here we are. Why am I dating this guy again?
“Are you ready for prom?” He asks me.
