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Instead I drift through a velvet darkness like a snowflake slowly feathering down to earth.
I land, set down gently in the world of my dream.
The island’s heat and the vibrant sun don’t welcome me.
Instead, when blink, I find myself standing in the snow. My cold white breath hangs in the air in front of me. My nose is numb. My cheeks are icy cold. My fingers and toes tingle from the snow and the ice. The air smells of freshly fallen snow, winter, and cold.
It’s night. Black and dark.
I lift my chin, letting my eyes follow the trail of candles lining a winter snow-covered drive. And I find the chateau, my home, glistening, lit like an angel on the top of a Christmas tree.
51
It’s terriblyeasy to enter a house uninvited. Especially when that house is your own.
I slip in the door near the kitchen, hidden by crates of wine and stacked boxes full of ornaments and unused garlands. The smells of mulled wine, melted chocolate, savory tarts, and Christmas spiced treats hits me with the strength of a crackling-hot kitchen. I avoid the hustle of the kitchen. There are banging pots, shouts, and hurried orders coming from that direction. Instead I slip down a side hall, hugging corners and shadows.
I walk quickly, with purpose, just in case someone sees me and asks why I’m here. My nose and cheeks are starting to thaw and there’s a painful tingling in my fingers as blood rushes in at the newfound warmth.
Down the hallway, reverberating through the stone walls and muffled by the thick old rugs, is the sound of an orchestra. They’re playing a Christmas waltz. I remember the song. I danced it with Max.
It’s Christmas Eve.
Mila is tucked in bed upstairs, dreaming Christmas dreams.
Daniel is?—
I duck around the corner, my heart racing.
Daniel is kissing a blonde in the study. I remember him leading her out of the ballroom, his hand at the crook of her back.
I lean against the stone wall and take a deep breath, willing my heart to slow.
I hear the woman’s laughter, Daniel’s murmured response.
The golden light from the wall sconce spills over the stone floor and hits the shadows at my feet. I clutch my hands. They’re still icy cold and prickling from the rush of warm air.
The waltz is picking up speed. Right about now, Max is telling me he wants more. He’s telling me he loves me.
There’s a weight in the pocket of my parka. It hits against my leg when I walk. Right now, it’s pressing into my thigh. I know what it is. I know without having to be told.
But all the same, I reach into the slick pocket of the long black parka and close my hand around the cold metal of the gun.
My breath is short, my lungs painfully tight.
When my fingers slide over the gun I shiver from the cold.
How did Becca know me? Did she dream when I dreamed? Or is it that Dee or Essie or Maranda told her who I claimed to be that first day I was there? Fiona Abry, British and Swiss citizen. It wouldn’t have been hard for her to find me. Or perhaps Aaron asked her about Fi; Robert asked her about her inconsistent behavior; someone told her about me saying my real name, acting strange.
I don’t know. I can’t say.
I only know that she’s here, on the first anniversary of Aaron’s death, with a gun.
There’s a woman’s tinkling laugh from the study, the soft murmur of Daniel’s voice.
I push away from the wall and hurry down the hallway. As I move down the shadowed hall, I push my blonde hair back and bring up the fur-lined black hood, pulling it tight around my face. I hide my features, burying myself in anonymity.
I remember the bulky black of the coat, the way the shadows of the hood hid the woman’s face. No one knew who she was. No one could make out her features.
