She goes quiet.
I listen.
Wind. Snow hissing against glass. The creak of the cabin settling. And underneath all of it, faint but unmistakable, a sound that does not belong here.
A motor.
It's distant—half a mile, maybe more. If the wind is right, I sometimes catch notes of logging trucks winding up the neighboring mountain. This is not that. This is an irregular, stuttering whine, the pitch rising and falling.
An ATV, possibly.
Or a snowmobile.
Neither of which has any business being within two miles of this cabin. That's the whole goddamn point of this place. It's mine and mine alone.
Wolf growls low in his throat.
"Stay here," I say to Caroline.
"What? Why? What's happening?"
I don't answer. I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and step into my boots without lacing them. The Remington is on the rack above the doorframe, but I leave it there. If whoever is trespassing on my property sees me storming around with a loaded rifle in hand, the situation will escalate before I have a chance to assess it.
Instead, I take the folding knife from the bowl on the side table and slide it into my back pocket.
"Afon!"
I look back at Caroline. She's sitting upright now, blanket pooled at her waist, green eyes wide. Wolf has positioned himself between her and the door, which I note with grim approval. At least the dog's got his priorities straight.
"I heard something outside," I tell her in the calmest voice I possess. "Probably a branch. I'm going to check."
She frowns. "A branch?" She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't follow me, either, which is all I need.
I step out onto the porch and tug the door shut behind me.
Nine inches of snow on the ground means the temperature has dropped another ten or fifteen degrees since dawn. My breath comes out in thick, white plumes.
But when I stop to listen, I hear nothing. The motor sound is gone now. Or is it merely turned off? Is its rider listening for me, like I'm listening to him?
I stand still and scan the tree line.
The clearing around the cabin is roughly forty yards in every direction before the forest takes over. Everywhere I look, the snow is pristine and unbroken except for the maze of tracks I left this morning going to and from the woodpile. Nothing moves. No sound except wind and the soft patter of snowflakes.
All is right in my little corner of the world.
Except for one thing.
Along the eastern tree line, partially obscured by a stand of birch, is a set of boot prints. Not mine. They emerge from the deeper woods, run parallel to the clearing for about twenty feet, and then cut back into the forest heading northwest.
Someone was here. Recently. The prints must be fresh because the snow hasn't had time to fill them in all the way. Whoever it was came close enough to see the cabin, walked along the perimeter, and then retreated.
A grim, familiar feeling steels over me. Like it's snowing on the inside of my veins.
I step off the porch and cross the yard. I keep my pace unhurried and casual, in case someone is watching from the trees. When I reach the boot prints, I crouch and examine them.
Size eleven, maybe twelve. Deep heel strike. Either a heavy person, or someone carrying weight.
I follow the prints into the tree line. They lead northwest through the birches, weaving between trunks. They mark out a careful path, free of snapped branches or scuffed bark.
