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“What’s wrong?” Penelope frowns at me, even as she’s shivering in her thin denim jacket.

“Snowstorm,” I say. Uneasiness knots around in my belly. Snow isn’t unusual this time of year, but it hadn’t been in the forecast. Odd for it to move in so suddenly.

Penelope frowns. “You can’t drive in a snowstorm?”

I look over at her, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold, the blustering wind throwing her hair into her face. It’s almost like the first time I ever saw Mary. My throat constricts.

“I can,” I manage to say. “But it’s dangerous, and only one of us is surviving if I run off the side of the mountain.”

Penelope glowers at me. “Do you have to say it like that?”

“It’s true.” I squint out at the little two-lane highway. I’ve been here before, and I know how it scissors its way down the side of the peak, one switchback after another. I could manage it with a little light snowfall, but this feels like a real storm, the air pressure already making my ears throb.

There’s a touch of the uncanny to it, too, although I don’t, at the moment, hear any dark, whispering voices in the wind.

“We should probably get a motel,” I finally say.

“Seriously?” Penelope says. “I fucking told you⁠—”

“No cameras. I know.” I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “You think I don’t know how to stay at a motel under the radar?”

I watch Penelope considering this, her cheeks pink from the cold and her hair dancing up around her in the wind. Part of me wants to reach over and smooth it back.

I refrain.

“Fine,” she says. “But you check in, okay? And I’m staying in the car.”

“Of course.” I have a half-dozen fake IDs wedged beside the spare tire in my trunk; checking into a motel under an assumed identity is hardly an issue for someone like me. “But we need to get moving.”

Penelope nods, gazing up at the sky. She’s shivering; I can feel the vibration of her body as well as I can see it, her discomfort more than evident. And, somehow, I find myself acting on some instinct that’s been dormant inside me for decades.

I shrug out of my coat and drape it around her shoulders.

She jumps a little when I touch her, whipping her head over like she thinks I’m going to attack her.

“You’re cold,” I say.

Penelope looks like she wants to argue with me. But then she slides her arms into the coat’s sleeves. It’s a little big on her, hanging like a cloak from her shoulders, her hair still tucked under the collar.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

I make my way back to the car. The truth is, I feel off-kilter, seeing her in my coat like that, and I try to tell myself that it’s just a fucking coat. I bought it at the Goodwill a few years back. But, really, it’s the tugging toward her that’s got me off-balance.

Mary, I think, unlocking the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. You’re finally going to get revenge for Mary.

But God, Penelope looks so much like her as she slides into the car beside me. Looks so much like her, but doesn’t smell anything like her. Doesn’t speak anything like her.

Isn’t her.

“Want me to find a motel?” she asks, already pulling her phone out.

“Not necessary. I’ve got one in mind.” I pull out onto the highway, keeping my eyes on the grey clouds. They’re thick with moisture, sagging low over the mountain. We don’t have a lot of time.

Fortunately, the Mountain Thistle Motel is only about a twenty-minute drive from Foleytown, even with the endless switchbacks. Penelope taps on her phone, the screen glowing out of the corner of my vision as I wind my way through the gloom.

“What are you doing?” The question comes out rougher than I intend.

“Updating my sister.” She looks over at me, her expression bland, even though I can feel the quickening of her heart inside her chest. “I am about to check into a motel with a psycho, after all.”