The Storm
One day I will tell Janelle who I really am.
Probably.
Five years ago, she just sort of swooped in and collected me her orbit when Nick introduced us, and she seemed just as grateful as I was to have a fellow pregnant person to talk to. And pregnancy—then our babies—became a big focus of our bond, everything that connected us in the present rather than bringing up the past.
She’s careful never to ask about my life before Nick, before I came to the Yukon. Even though her speciality is grief counselling, I suspect she has enough training as a psychologist to know I’ve been through something—she can see the scars there, better than the average person does. She’s respectful and never pushes for more information than I seek to give, though.
I tell her about the graffiti, and that I caught the girls who did it. That I’m relieved but also shaken, uncomfortable in the house alone overnight. She chastises me—gently, of course—for not coming to them sooner, reminding me she does have two husbands and can loan one out for protection if I need it as she welcomes me and Dee into her home overnight.
Late at night, while next to Nadia in the guest room as she slumbers, I review the previous night’s photos.
Ice solidifies in my veins.
Then I check every time the camera alerts ding on my phone but it’s all animals now. Sneaking by the house, sniffing around the door. The coyote is back.
The hare also makes an appearance.
The storm’s promise begins its descent come morning, and the Weather Channel has a red alert across the Whitehorse page. By noon it’s only minus twelve Celsius with the temperature expected to drop further, and whiteout conditions by the evening. The city is busy with last-minute preparations—even those who had lived here all their lives still stock up on a little extra when that first big storm of the season hits.
Early afternoon rolls around and I know I can’t stay at Janelle’s anymore. It’ll be too hard to get back until the roads clear—even after the storm passes, it might be days yet before I can get to my rural home. Against her pleas and advice, I pack up, grab a few supplies at Walmart, and head home.
Although the snow is bad, the wind hasn’t picked up much. Fifteen kilometers per hour or so, but that’s expected to get worse tonight. I drive through Red Fox Lake and the handful of businesses are already closed for the day—except the bar, of course. Two winters ago, it stayed open through a three-day power outage and snowstorm. Even Nick and I sat in with Nadia for a few hours with half the village just to touch base with everyone, and we helped check in on the elderly residents to ensure they had fires going. The community could be great...when they considered you a part of it.
The steadily falling snow has accumulated to nearly a foot since last night, and the blowing wind makes that deeper in some areas. My winter tires crunch easily through the crisp white blanket that makes up my driveway, and the house itself is dark and quiet.
Wind pushes against the car door as I shove it open, and I brace against the bitterness. I’m in the navy cable-knit I’d thrown on last night and I regret I didn’t take the time to grab a coat. Gloves keep my fingers from getting numb as I knock my door closed and open the rear passenger. I lift the bundle of hooded snowsuit and scarf from the car seat and head up to the door.
The beginnings of killer still haunt me from the front of the house—I’ll have to deal with that when the snow slows in a few days.
I’m still not used to all the locks, but I get through them. Then relock behind me and arm the alarm. It’s not quite habit but it’s getting close.
As I set down my keys on the kitchen counter, the house strikes me as...off.
It’s not immediately anything I can identify. We left in a rush last night, and now I struggle to remember how it had looked when I walked away. There’s still a lot of disarray from the movers bringing things in, unpacked boxes along the far wall. The couch is a mess of Nadia’s toys and a blanket still, throw pillows disarranged. In the kitchen, there’s an empty coffee cup with a spoon next to the sink, where the window overlooks the front driveway and my SUV.
Did I make tea last night?
I step closer to the kitchen and can still smell the coffee in the air—I definitely had coffee in yesterday morning, but...
My stomach twists, though I give my head a shake and head for the stairs, whispering reassurances for Dee—and perhaps myself—as I climb the steps to the second floor. The house is eerily silent but for the knock of snow against the windowpanes and moaning of the rising storm.
But when I reach Nadia’s room, the downstairs alarm goes off.
A high-pitched screech fills the air, a piercing throb, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I haven’t time to think, to plan; my body goes into autopilot. Down goes the bundle in my arms on the bed, door shut—goddamn why isn’t there a lock to engage?—and I run full-tilt the few steps down the hall to the master bedroom, right for the closet, my boots clumping noisily on the floor. I throw open the closet door, hangers rattling on the bar above as I toss my clothes aside—
The gun safe is open and it’s empty.
I did not anticipate this and my brain stutters to a halt as I stare at the dark open mouth of the safe, searching for a gun I’m sure should be there even when I see it isn’t.
In fractured seconds, I play back over my memory from the night before, of coming back in with the gun. I was shaken and angry, but I came back up and locked it. I know I did. I would not have left it out with Nadia in the house.
I did not plan for this.
The alarm still blares incessantly though I’m almost numb to it now.
I spin and head down the stairs, my steps moving into a jog, and my hand trembles as I grasp the railing for support. Back on the first floor, I skid to a halt when I reach the bottom, gaze initially drawn to a living room window thrown open—a smattering of snow has blown in but there are no prints, like it had been opened from someone inside.
To set off the alarm and get my attention.
Then my eyes move to a figure in dark winter gear standing near the fireplace ready for me, my shotgun in hand although he’s not pointing it.
Yet.
Trembling spills through my body and my vision tunnels; even the noise dampens as if my ears are stuffed with cotton. Every sense of mine narrows to the smirking sneer full of teeth he has for me and the ice of hatred in his dark eyes.
Even through the alarm, I hear him as if his voice is the only sound in the room.
“Hello, Chloe.”
I stare at him as cold seeps into my house through the window.
My breath clouds in front of me when I speak: “Derrick.”