FIONA
Somehow, the American customs agent didn’t pick up on my anxiety or Seb’s grumpy aloofness, even though they fill the car interior like smoke.
I never mentioned the exact location of my father’s cabin to Seb, and I think he thought we’d be going somewhere in Canada. As soon as he realized we were headed back to the States, he tried to convince me to consider another location. But when I told him that Detective Lin, the VPD investigator who acquired my case from Officer Theo, contacted me before we left and thought going back to the US would be a good choice, Seb conceded.
Even though I couldn’t provide a photo of Dennis, he had a driver license, so after some cross-border paperwork, the VPD was able to get his picture, albeit an older one, on file. The detective had Dennis’s description sent to every border agency from here to Maine. I was also cautioned not to tellanyonewhere we were going, so Detective Lin is literally the only person who knows right now.
Also thankfully, Seb carries his NEXUS card in his wallet so he was allowed to cross the border without his passport. (Thatwas a possible complication I didn’t consider when we left. My bad.)
My left foot won’t stop tapping, nervous energy coursing through my body as I check the mirror every few minutes.
Is someone following us?
We’ve been traveling for about an hour and just made it to Washington. The snowfall thickens the closer we get to Mount Baker. The fields are covered in a pristine white blanket, the landscape much calmer than my racing heart.
“Are you okay?” Seb’s deep voice startles me, and my hands tighten reflexively on the steering wheel.
“I’m fine.” I glance at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “What?” I snap.
“You seem super relaxed is all,” Seb says, his voice somehow dripping with both concern and sarcasm.
How does he do that?
I roll to a halt at a stop sign just as we’re entering the little town of Flurry. My tires spin in the snow and slush before they catch. The name feels a little too appropriate at the moment. Streetlights cast bluish-yellow streaks across the icy road, and the odd person trudges down the sidewalk, stopping to stare as we pass.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I’m an idiot. Everyone is going to remember a red BMW sliding through the snow in this small-ass town.”
“You probably should have told me where we were going,” Seb says for the hundredth time.
“You knew my dad owned a cabin in the woods.” I crawl through town at a snail’s pace, feeling the snow tug at my tires as the steering wheel pulls against my shaking hands. Washingtonians are infamous for being terrible drivers in inclement weather. I wish I could say I was different, but I’m one of those people who has to turn down the radio to see better.
“Fiona, if I had known that we were literally headedup amountainin the middle of winter, I would have insisted on borrowing Marcus’s work truck.”
I squint at the grocery store. It looks closed. “Guess we’re going to get food tomorrow.”
By the time I reach the road that winds up the mountain, the lights from Flurry are swallowed up by the shadowed evergreen forest, and I have to turn my wipers on high to see through the sleet.
My chest feels tight, and my palms are slippery.
Something flickers across my vision. Probably an animal. I glance left and tap my brakes, but I don’t see anything.
The car swerves, sliding on the snow, and Seb tenses next to me, his arm slinging across my chest like an overprotective parent. I ease off the brakes, letting the car come to a stop on its own.
“Are you okay?” Seb looks at me, his eyes wide. Breathing hard, my gaze drops to where Seb’s forearm is crushing my breasts against my body, and he jerks back quickly. “Shit, sorry.”
I give him a small smile. “It’s okay.”
Honestly, I’m glad he came with me because I’m a mess. My hair is heavy and damp against my neck, so I pull the scrunchie off my wrist and twist the strands into a high bun. Then, I rub my hands on my jeans, take a deep breath, and press the gas gingerly.
My little car begrudgingly inches forward, and I resume the drive, taking a right off of Highway 542 and onto a gravel road.
This cabin is the one spot that I’m sure Dennis never knew about. My dad left it to Daisy, but I convinced her to put it in my name during one of her sober-ish stints when I was eighteen, so I’m the only one with keys to the place. My mom owned so many vacation homes that I doubt she remembered this place beyond signing the paperwork.
I have vague memories of my dad. He had brownish-red hair with a beard, and he smiled a lot. He brought me out here a fewtimes before he left when I was five. People say you don’t recall many memories from when you’re that young, but I remember helping him stack firewood, roasting marshmallows, and wading through the glacier-fed stream with his strong hand holding me steady.
It’s one of the few places I’ve always felt safe.
Of course, I’ve never come up in the winter because the roads are practically impassable, but what choice do I have now?
