Winterwood

Nora clears her throat. “I don’t know what to believe,” she says, a tiny whimper against her lips. Her eyes lift and she’s about to speak again, but I move forward, pressing her up against the wall, and place my hand over her mouth—silencing her.

She tries to push against my chest, to push me back, but I put a finger to my lips—a sign to be quiet. Someone has stopped outside the bedroom door, the floorboards creaking beneath their weight. They grab the knob, like they’re checking to be sure it’s still secure. They pause and listen. Maybe they heard us talking.

If they find me in here, I don’t know what they’ll do.

My exhale stirs against her dark raven hair. We’re so close I can hear her heartbeat against her throat, the rising rhythm of her lungs with each breath. I don’t want to move away from her—I want to move closer. But I know we’re not safe in here.

The footsteps plod away, back down the hall to the stairs, and I lower my hand from her mouth. “Sorry,” I whisper, still only a few inches from her face.

She doesn’t push me back, she doesn’t yell at me, she just blinks and breathes and peers up into my eyes.

“Nora,” I say, barely above a whisper, blood rushing into my ears. “We have to leave this room.”

She chews on her lower lip, breathing, breathing, and I think my heart might rise up into my throat. And then she nods.

NORA

Oliver is so close—too close—I can smell the wintergreen scent of his skin. See the soft waves of dark hair along his temples, snow melting in the strands. I could touch a single snowflake and let it rest at the tip of my finger; I could graze his cheek, his collarbone. I could press my hand to his chest and feel the cadence of his heart, listen for the thrum of someone capable of murder. Someone who has pushed another boy beneath the surface of the lake and watched him drown.

But I don’t.

I don’t because I’m afraid of what I will feel. I’m afraid of letting myself sink closer, closer, into him.

So I let him take my hand in his—the hands he may have used to press the life from Max’s lungs—and he pulls me to the open window.

In one swift, effortless motion, he hoists me through the window and onto the roof.

The wind is at our backs and Oliver goes first, scaling down the corner of the house. I should be terrified, knowing we could fall, but with his hands on me, bracing footholds, I feel safe.

My fingers start to go numb where they grip the rain gutter, my feet barely touching the top of a first-floor window, and the final drop is another six feet below me. I hesitate and Oliver whispers, “Let go.” I squeeze my eyes closed and release my hands, feeling only a half second of weightlessness before Oliver catches me. His hands tighten around my torso, my ribs, and he lowers me to the ground.

Fin licks my palm. “I’m okay,” I whisper, running a hand down his coat. He must have sensed something was wrong, heard my cries echoing through the trees. He found me.

Oliver gives me a look, and I know we need to get away from the house. We move up into the trees, into the dark where we won’t be seen, weaving along the backside of summer homes until we reach my house.

I let Oliver follow me inside and I lock the door behind us, sliding the dead bolt into place. I close the curtains over the front windows.

I keep out the things I fear. But I lock Oliver inside with me, who perhaps I should fear the most.

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” he says, drawing back a curtain to look out into the dark. He thinks the boys will come for me. That once they discover I’m gone from that room, they will come beat their fists against the door and drag me out into the snow.

“Where would we go?” I ask.

“We could hide in one of the other homes?”

“If they really want to find me, they’ll check all the homes anyway.”

Oliver’s hand taps at his side, and he walks to the back door to make sure it’s locked, then scans the trees. But no one is there. The boys probably haven’t even realized I’m gone yet.

“Let’s go up to the loft,” I say. “We can see farther into the woods—if anyone does come.” I don’t know why I want him to stay. But I do know. It’s the knocking around inside my rib cage, the soft ache I can’t trust. He’s familiar—not like the others. He’s the only one who makes me feel not so alone.

Oliver nods. But I can’t meet his eyes.

He saved me, that must mean something.

The loft is warm, the heat trapped by the ceiling, and Fin takes up a post at the top of the stairs. Like he senses there is danger out there somewhere.

I sit at the edge of the bed and look down at my hands. I want to trust Oliver, I want to believe him. He says he didn’t kill Max. But a thousand lies rest beneath the surface. A thousand little cuts filled with salt.

“Did you see the moth?” I ask. “At the window, before you found me?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

I exhale and press my hands together.