The words don't make sense at first. They just sort of float there in the cold air between us, refusing to land.
“What do you mean I can't get back down?”
“I said the road's closed. Both directions. You're stuck.”
Stuck.
The word hits me like a snowball to the face. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the wall of white surrounding me, the complete absence of other houses or people or any sign of civilization.
“For how long?”
“At least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer, depending on when the storm passes and how fast they can clear the roads and make sure the road is stable.” She sounds miserable. “I'm so sorry. I tried to call you in time.”
“It's okay. It's not your fault.”
“What are you going to do?”
Great question. I stare at the dark cabin, at the snow already piling up against the door. “I guess... go inside? Wait it out?”
“The spare key is under the big rock to the left of the stairs. The flat one.”
I find it where she said, covered in snow and ice. The key is so cold it burns my fingers.
“I haven't been up there in at least a year, but there should be some stuff in the pantry. Like, mac and cheese, canned soup maybe? And wine. There's definitely wine. The fireplace works, there's wood stacked on the side of the porch. You'll be fine. Totally fine. It's cozy!”
I force my voice into something approximating okay. “It's fine. Really. It’s veryHallmarkmovie. Maybe a hot guy will rescue me.”
Mackenzie laughs. “I'll make it up to you. I promise.”
“I'm holding you to that.”
We say goodbye and I stand there on the porch, phone in hand, trying not to freak out.
It's fine. It'sfine. It's just one night. Maybe two. I'm an adult. I can handle being alone in a cabin during a snowstorm.
People do this on purpose. They pay money for this kind of solitude.
I'm still trying to convince myself when I unlock the door and push it open.
The first thing I notice is that it's not as cold inside as it should be. Not warm exactly, but not the arctic wasteland I was expecting. Like someone's been here recently.
The second thing I notice is the bottle.
It sits on the coffee table in front of the stone fireplace. A half-empty bottle of whiskey, next to a lowball glass with maybe an inch of amber liquid still in it.
My heart starts beating faster.
I step inside slowly. The cabin is beautiful, all exposed wood beams and leather furniture, and a kitchen open to the main living space. Exactly as cozy as Mackenzie always described. But there's a coat draped over one of the chairs, and a pair of boots by the door. Men's boots, well-worn, splattered with mud.
Someone is here.
Someone ishere.
My first thought is squatter. My second thought is serial killer. My third thought is that I watch too much true crime.
I'm backing toward the door, mentally calculating whether I can make it to my car and lock myself in, when I hear it.
Water running. A sink.
