Even her bones felt icy and brittle.
She tugged the edges of her hat down as far as she could and wrapped her scarf around her face, breathing into it to create a temperate pocket.
She made her way toward the shed, not sure what she expected to find in there, but hoping there would be something, anything, to dig with that she could carry with her.
The decaying shed was dark, and the ancient wood smelled musty even in the cold. Violet turned on her flashlight so she could see inside. Firewood was stacked all the way from the dirt floor to the ceiling against one entire wall. Against the others, there were old boxes, piled one on top of another, tools of various kinds, many of which she didn’t recognize: a snow shovel that she doubted would be useful, rusted cans of paint, an old broom, and a rickety wooden ladder. She’d wanted a real shovel, something with a pointed tip capable of penetrating the solid ground, but there was nothing like that.
She did, however, spot something that might prove just as useful. An ax leaned against the pile of wood, with a blade that, sharp or not, would at least break through the compacted ice to reach the dirt below.
Violet clutched the handle in her gloved hand before turning her flashlight out and leaving the shed behind her.
Violet walked, her boots crunching in the icy snow, for as far as she could in the glow that radiated from the windows of the cabin. She didn’t want to turn on the flashlight until she had to. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, even though everyone inside was still asleep.
But there was no moon to illuminate her way, and it was dark beneath thick cloud cover. And eventually, when she was too far from the house, she had to use it anyway.
The beam cast a reflective gleam up from the ground like a fine, ethereal mist. At any other time Violet would have thought that it was wondrous and beautiful. Now, however, she was too caught up in her purpose to appreciate the wintry spectacle.
The ax grew heavy in her hand, and she hefted it up, leaning it against her shoulder to ease the burden of its weight.
There was only a moment of relief for Violet, after she was released from the pain of the imprint in the cabin she left behind—the one Mike’s dad carried. She knew it was only temporary though, that it would reclaim her as she moved closer to the cover of trees, where the body lay hidden. Yet she was powerless to stop herself from moving toward it.
She didn’t need to see her trail through the snow to find her way, the echo found her again easily, seeking her out. Calling to her.
Magical, Violet thought, the desires of the dead. And even as the pain reclaimed her, she was acutely aware that the nature of her ability was nothing less than miraculous.
In this moment, it was a thing of beauty.
Just like before, the pain peaked, and the narcotic sensations bled into her system, releasing imaginary toxins that made her light-headed with relief.
She had reached the hidden body.
She thought of the little cat in the box and wondered, for the first time, what was down below her, buried within the frozen ground she stood upon.
Mike had said that his father was a hunter, and Violet assumed that meant large game—elk or deer, rather than quail or rabbits.
Or small, harmless cats, Violet thought bitterly.
She let the haze reclaim her as she dropped to her knees.
Pride
Megan listened in the dark as doors opened and then closed again. She had grown accustomed to being a sentinel of the night. Long-bred habits were hard to break.
She’d heard her father come in, and she knew from the sound of his unsteady movements around the cabin that he’d been drinking.
She stayed awake long after he’d gone to bed and his nighttime sounds had ceased.
And then there was something else. Another sound.
At first, Megan thought it was nothing. One of her brother’s friends getting up to use the bathroom.
But it wasn’t.
She listened. Hard.
It was barely noticeable, and if she hadn’t gone to her window, she might have missed it altogether. Someone had left the cabin.
No, not someone. Violet.
It was strange seeing Violet walking away, dressed for the weather and disappearing into the uninviting night. Just days ago, Megan might have felt differently about what she was witnessing, about seeing someone who she’d despised fading into the freezing shadows.
But now . . . now she felt something she hadn’t expected to feel. Curiosity.
And concern.
Violet had been kind to her when she’d deserved nothing but condemnation, even if Violet was unsure of the offenses that Megan had committed against her. Still, Violet had welcomed Megan into their group, forgiving whatever she had once suspected and trying to start anew.
Megan felt guilty for everything she’d done to Violet.
It was an odd mixture of emotions. Unfamiliar sensations crept over her in unwelcome waves.
Megan reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the tiny pink collar she’d hidden there. She fingered it—lovingly—stroking it slowly between her thumb and forefinger as she closed her eyes.
She missed her little cat, the stray she’d been secretly feeding, secretly loving. She missed the way it waited for her, counted on her, loved her in return.
It was the first time Megan had been needed. Really needed.
But her father had taken that from her too.
He wouldn’t allow her to be loved.
He was too selfish to allow her anything good, so he’d taken care of the problem, not by arguing and demanding that she chase the cat away, but by simply leaving it in the trash for her to find.