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Prologue
THE SNOW WAS FALLING hard and fast, swirling beyond the floor to ceiling windows, and Gabe was glad. Glad he was here, alone. Glad the snow was creating an impenetrable barrier to the outside world. Glad because it might mean he could remain here forever.
Forse, not forever.
But at least for Christmas.
Alone.
Away from the well-meaning questions his family always asked, the concern in their eyes, their kindness and understanding. Cristo, how he hated that. As though he deserved any of it after what he did.
Grinding his teeth together, he lifted the scotch glass to his lips, tasting a hint of the liquid before throwing it all back, his Adam’s apple shifting in his stubble-covered throat as the alcoholic heat burned him all the way down.
In the distance, he could just make out the pale yellow glow of car lights cutting into the whiteness of the landscape. It had to be I carabinieri or similar. No one else would be mad enough – or have the necessary equipment – to drive on these perilous roads on a night like this.
He turned his back on the sight – an unwelcome reminder that light has a way of finding a path through even the darkest of voids – striding across the room to the well-stocked bar in the corner.
When Gabe wasn’t at Il Nido, he had domestic staff move in and take care of it. But when he returned, the instructions were simple: leave food, alcohol, and get out.
The house had been immaculate when he’d walked through the doors two weeks earlier, but now it bore all the hallmarks of a man living on his own, who didn’t give a crap about what the state of his house was. It wasn’t as though he had any intention of being joined here in his sanctuary. Or hell-hole.
Here, on the edge of the earth, he could replay the incidents of that long-ago night over and over, reminding himself what he’d done, what he’d taken, what he’d destroyed.
Here, on the edge of the earth, he could remind himself that he had no right to happiness when he’d destroyed hers.
He poured another scotch, knowing it wouldn’t dull the pain, but that it would hasten sleep and oblivion.
1
“OH, NO, NO, NO!” Isabella gripped the steering wheel, avoiding the brake – she knew enough about hazardous driving to realise that if she slammed on the brakes she’d spin out on these icy roads. Already going at a snail’s pace, she lifted her foot off the accelerator, but it didn’t make much difference. The car was moving seemingly of its own free will toward a thick bank of snow to her right. She resisted the temptation to squeeze her eyes shut, doing her best to steer the car away from the snowbank while simultaneously realising that ‘away from the snowbank’ meant towards the god-knows-how-deep ravine just beyond the road’s edge.
She squealed into the confines of the rental car as it picked up speed, careening down a small hill. Suddenly the snowbank looked like the most appealing option. It all happened in a few quick seconds. Indecision, doubt, fear, and then she nudged back towards the side of the road, bracing as the car juddered against the wall of thick white snow, the noise impossibly loud. It dragged on as the car tried to move past the snow, before finally thudding to a stop. Silence, before a deafening thud as a heap of snow crashed down on the car.
Another curse dropped from her lips as survival instincts kicked into gear. She had to move quickly, or she’d risk being consumed by the snow completely. On a night like this, it wouldn’t take long for the car to be completely iced over and she’d have no hope of staving off hypothermia. She pushed the door open so a large chunk of snow dislodged and fell onto her head. She shook it off, moving around to the trunk of the car.
It was partly wedged in by snow, meaning her bags were stuck, held hostage by this incredible weather event.
With a grimace, she gave up on liberating her suitcase and made do with the bag in the backseat – a rucksack containing her laptop, camera, notes, a half-eaten piadina from a roadstop about twenty miles back, and a pair of fingerless gloves.
Fingerless gloves, she thought with a shake of her head, a smile finding her lips despite the tenuous situation she was in. Leave it to an Australian to bring such unsuitable winter garb as fingerless gloves to weather that could well have blown in from the north pole.
Thankfully, her far more appropriate jacket was also discarded on the backseat. She pulled it on first, cinching the belt around her waist and burrowing into the faux fur collar, before lifting the rucksack onto her back.
“And now what, genius?” She muttered, looking around in the thickness of the snow. The woman working at the roadhouse had said the village was ‘just a few miles up the road’, but after an hour’s driving in conditions that had taken all of Isabella’s concentration, she’d begun to realise they’d been talking at cross purposes. There was no village in sight. In fact, there was nothing in sight except the thick blanket of just-fallen snow, and the dark, rigid trunks of thick, pine trees.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she loaded a browser, wondering if she could google a map – something, anything – to work
out where the hell she was. Except the browser just displayed an unhelpful little exclamation mark, and bore the words that even she with her somewhat limited Italian could interpret: no internet access.
The moon was almost completely covered by clouds. With a quick assessment of the car, Isabella risked one more incursion, flicking open the glove box to find little more than the operating manual and rental agreement. She checked between the seats; nothing. Nada. Then, beneath the passenger seat, her hands curved around a box. Hopefully, she lifted it out. A basic first aid kit. Nothing more. No flashlight.
Of course.
