ii.

Outside the windows, flurries of white interrupted the bleak darkness. If anything could bond our motley crew of passengers, it was surviving the zero visibility conditions.

Thanks to our driver, whose nametag on the dashboard identified her as Ivy, the road barely felt like the obstacle course that it was. She navigated two unexpected snow drifts and a fallen tree branch with the footwork of a race-car driver, all the while chatting with Simon about his books.

“Is it true you based the character Stetson Quick on your own experience being wrongly accused of murder?” Ivy asked.

“You’ve no idea what it feels like to lose someone you love in such a brutal way,” Simon said. A reflection of his forlorn face flashed in the side window. “You think it can’t possibly get any worse, but when the police think you’re the one who did it…It’s why I found myself compelled to write To the Quick while awaiting trial.”

Simon Quinn had made a name for himself writing literary thrillers about a reluctant hero—a man who’d been wrongly convicted of murder, and after escaping from prison lived in the shadows while traveling the country and helping others who’d been wrongly accused. Simon’s books weren’t my cup of tea, but millions loved them. Of the people who didn’t, many objected not to the content of the books, but the character of the author.

“Didn’t you care that her family thought you were exploiting the situation?” Tamarind asked.

In the window’s reflection, I caught a flash of annoyance flicker across Simon’s face. He quickly covered the expression as he swept aside his black hair. He couldn’t have been older than his early thirties, but his face bore the deep lines of worry of someone much older.

“Simon’s work has always been about redemption,” Kenny said. “He’s given so many people hope that it’s unfair to—”

“It’s all right, Kenny,” Simon said. “It’s true that her family wished I hadn’t used facts so closely related to the case in the novel, but it’s what was so therapeutic, not just for me, but for everyone following the trial. As Kenny said, the pain of a few resulted in redemption for many.”

“They’re brilliant books,” the Irishwoman said, not looking up from her knitting.

“Exploitative is what they are,” Tamarind murmured loudly enough for only me to hear, but I saw Kenny’s posture stiffen.

Tamarind fell uncharacteristically silent after grumbling, “Why didn’t I listen to you when I had the chance?” She crossed her arms and popped on headphones, giving a spot-on impression of a sulking teen. It made her look closer to sixteen than her true age of twenty-six.

If Tamarind hadn’t been one of my closest friends, I would have thought she was nervous about the snowstorm. But I knew she couldn’t stand manipulative people. She worked as a librarian at a public university, even after being offered more lucrative jobs, because she wanted to help people directly. I didn’t know if it was true that Simon had strangled his college sweetheart ten years ago, but he’d leveraged being acquitted for murder into fame and fortune as a bestselling author.

While Ivy asked Simon more about his books, I became immediately enamored with my knitting seatmate Dorothy, who insisted I call her Dot. She’d been a high-school history teacher in both Ireland and the US—a far more difficult job than my own job of history professor. Aside from a few of the students in my Intro to World History course that satisfied a graduation requirement, my students wanted to be in my classes. They were bright, curious, and at an age where they were convinced they could save the world. My best students believed me when I told them the old adage, those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it. They took the saying to heart, and I didn’t doubt they’d make a difference far beyond the classroom.

Dot felt the same about her students. A retired widow, she was now a volunteer tutor for low-income students in Albuquerque, where she was trying to return after spending Thanksgiving with her daughter’s family in Colorado.

“My daughter’s manky husband dropped me off at the airport before making sure my flight wasn’t grounded,” Dot said with a shake of her head. “Young men these days. No offense, Kenneth. You seem to be on the right path. It must be an honor to work with Simon.”

Was it my imagination, or did her words have the distinct ring of sarcasm?

“It is,” Kenny said. “I’ve learned so much this year as his research assistant. I’ve—”

All conversation broke off as the car swerved abruptly. My seatbelt caught with the sudden shift in movement, and Tamarind grabbed my arm.

“Sorry,” Ivy said, maneuvering around a car crash on the side of the road.

“Nice reflexes,” Kenny said.

Ivy beamed. “When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming a NASCAR driver.” Even in the reflection of the rearview mirror, she glowed with that adventurous spirit.

After twenty minutes the SUV came to a stop, and Ivy turned off the engine. It had taken longer than I’d thought it would to reach a hotel. Assuming that’s where we were. I still couldn’t see anything.

“Kenny,” Simon said, “take care of this.”

“Right,” Kenny said, passing a credit card to Ivy.

“Bloody hell,” Simon exclaimed as he opened his door. “Where are we?”

“What an affectation,” Tamarind whispered. “He’s not British. He’s not even Australian. He’s originally from here in Denver.” She rolled her eyes.

“The other hotels are full,” Ivy said to Simon. “I knew this one would have room because it’s further out and up on this hill that most drivers won’t brave in a snowstorm. You should all count yourselves lucky you aren’t sleeping on the floor at the airport.” The last of her words were lost on Simon as he slammed the door behind him and trudged through the snow toward the hotel without a glance back at us.

“I, for one, am thrilled not to be sleeping on the airport floor,” I said.

Kenny had already slipped his credit card back into his wallet, but he wasn’t moving.

“Um, Kenny,” Tamarind said, “could you move so we can get out?”

“Sorry.” He looked up from his phone, a not-sorry grin on his face. “I was looking up the hotel. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. I need to tell Simon.” He jumped out, but to his credit, instead of chasing after Simon he stood at our door along with Ivy to help the rest of us navigate safely to the icy ground.

“Those two are a strange pair,” Dot said, once Kenny was out of earshot.

The snow was still blowing sideways, but outside the car I was able to see the outlines of a hotel. It looked more like a Victorian mansion than a modern hotel. Two turrets flanked the sides of the three-story building. A curtain fluttered in the high window of the left turret. Was someone watching our arrival? I was half blinded by the snow and darkness, so I couldn’t see whoever was standing in the window.

More interesting than an inquisitive observer and old-fashioned architecture was the gnarled tree that stood in front of the hotel. “Stood” was perhaps the wrong word to describe it. Its thick trunk twisted around itself, and it had grown, not toward the sky, but hunched over as if protecting the hotel from an invisible foe. Past the tree, the entryway beckoned. A wrought-iron sign above the jade green double door read TANGLEWOOD INN.

I picked up my bag and walked to the entrance of the Tanglewood Inn.