I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me that way.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, voice cracking. “I’ll go. Right now. I’ll clean everything up and get out of your way and you’ll never have to see me again. I can’t believe I—God, you must think I’m insane.”
She’s already moving, frantic, scrubbing at the counter with a towel, as if she can erase herself from the space. But her presence is everywhere—mismatched plates set on my table, a candle I’ve never seen before, the sweet, rich scent of dinner that makes my stomach tighten painfully. For a second, I want to tell her to stop, that it’s fine, but the words won’t come. Too much. All of this is too much.
“Stop.” My voice is harder than I mean, but she freezes instantly, towel clutched in one hand.
I should let her leave. Should point her toward the right road—Cascade Pines, two miles down—and lock the door behind her. That’s the smart play. That’s what I’ve trained myself to do: keep things contained, predictable, safe. Four years of solitude, routines and silence. No surprises.
But there’s a storm coming. I’ve tracked it all day, watched the sky turn slate, felt the pressure shift deep in my bones. The road down the mountain is a death trap in good weather, and I can see in her face—soft, open, unprepared for what waits outside—that she’s not built for a blizzard in the Cascades.
I force my voice steady. “What’s your name?”
She swallows, voice shaky but trying to hold together. “Marcella. Marcella Campos. I have a food blog. I’m from Denver. I’m not a serial killer or a burglar or?—”
Her name feels strange in my mouth, too soft, too many syllables for a place like this. “Marcella. The rental cabins are two milesdown the mountain. Cascade Pines. You want Cabin Seven, not Tower Seven.”
“Tower Seven,” she echoes, a wild, disbelieving sound in her laugh. “Of course. Of course Coralyn got the address wrong. This is so—I’m going to kill her. After I die of embarrassment, I’m going to come back as a ghost and murder my best friend.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“You should go now,” I say, even though my gut is screaming otherwise. “Storm’s coming. You’ll want to get down the mountain before it hits.”
She nods too fast, hands shaking as she scoops up her things—a purse, a grocery bag, the candle. “I’ll just—the food, should I take it, or—it’s almost done, actually, if you want it. Consider it an apology for the breaking and entering? The short ribs really are good, I promise.”
She keeps talking, words tumbling out, filling the silence I can’t seem to bridge. I should say something, reassure her, but my throat locks tight. I want to ground myself, reach for the edge of the counter, the grain of the wood, but she’s watching me and I can’t stand the thought of her seeing how badly I need it.
“Take it,” I manage, voice rough. “Your date’s waiting.”
Something flickers across her face—relief, disappointment, I can’t tell—but she nods and turns to the stove. Her hands are trembling so badly she almost drops the Dutch oven lid.
Outside, the wind picks up; snow swirls past the windows in thickening flurries. I tell myself: Let her go. This isn’t your problem.
But my feet move before my brain does, carrying me to the window. I scan the sky—tactical, automatic, can’t switch it off. Clouds rolling in heavier, swallowing the last of the light. Too fast. Too soon.
The radio crackles, the emergency channel I leave running out of habit. “...severe winter storm warning now in effect for the Cascade mountain region. Blizzard conditions expected by 6 PM. Residents are advised to shelter in place. Road closures imminent...”
Marcella freezes, Dutch oven in hand, her eyes wide, the color draining from her face.
“Blizzard?” she whispers.
The wind howls, rattling the windows, the first real threat in its voice.
I look at her—a stranger in my kitchen, who smells like vanilla and wine and comfort I haven’t known in years, who talks too much and shakes with nerves but hasn’t run screaming. Who is absolutely not prepared for what’s about to hit this mountain.
I know, in that moment, with absolute certainty: She’s not going anywhere tonight.
Chapter 3
MARCELLA
“I can make it.”
The words tumble out before I’ve fully thought them through. “Two miles isn’t that far,” I continue. “I have four-wheel drive. I’ll just?—”
“No.”
One word. Flat. Final. The man—I don’t even know his name, I just broke into his house and I don’t know hisname—moves past me toward the window, his body radiating tension.
