Frozen Beauty

by Lexa Hillyer

  “Me? Following you? Not exactly,” Tessa said. “Anyway, I was here before you.”

  “That makes no sense,” Mel said, staring into her eyes.

  And that was fair. It didn’t make sense. Tessa shouldn’t be here. But neither should Mel. It wasn’t either of their crowds.

  “I’m here because . . . because . . . I was trying to find clues. About Kit. About what happened last fall and what she was hiding from us. Because—here’s the thing, Mel.” Tessa could feel her pulse racing. “I don’t believe that Boyd did it, okay? I don’t believe he killed Kit.”

  Mel let out a heavy sigh. Her eyes slid to a detached keyboard on the floor, then to a matted, sunken armchair in one corner. Anywhere but Tessa. “There’s something you should probably know,” she said quietly.

  Tessa stood there, feeling like the rain from earlier had melted into her, and she was becoming water, becoming something not quite solid.

  “There’s a rumor the case is going to trial soon.”

  “What are you—how do you know?”

  “My mom. She knows everything in this town, remember? She’s a reporter.”

  Gossip columnist, more like. But Tessa wasn’t going to correct her. “What else did she find out?”

  Mel looked away. “That he plans to plead guilty.”

  “But there’s nothing to admit to!” Panic was beginning to have a choke hold on her. It was hard to breathe. “This is wrong. This is so wrong, Mel. This is why I have to do something, I have to say something, I have to find proof—”

  “Tessa!” Mel shouted. Then she clapped a hand over her own mouth and glanced at the closed door. When nothing happened, she went on more quietly. “Tessa. No. You need to stop. You need to let it lie. This isn’t for you to solve.”

  Heat flashed through Tessa, making her hands shake. “You’re wrong, Melissa. This is for me to solve, and only me.”

  Mel looked slapped. “Fine. Well, leave me out of it, at least.” Without another glance at Tessa, she swung open the den door and made her way back into the throng of partiers.

  Tessa slid through the main part of the house and the ruckus of the party, completely overwhelmed. What kind of proof had she really thought she could get here? This had been such a disaster. She was an amateur. A cluster of kids stood outside the front door now, and as she scooched between them and down the stoop, she felt like smoke, drifting through the party and the world, shapeless and without notice.

  The rain was starting to let up, but her bike was wet and slippery.

  Hurriedly, she did her best to wipe the seat with her sleeve, then hopped on and began to pedal.

  The ride home was dark and wet and wavery, the rain still dripping off branches, blending with tears of frustration and confusion. Her chest rattled, like she’d been holding her breath too long.

  Her ring glinted in the light of the street lamps.

  Somewhere along Woodrow, a figure emerged into the road.

  Tessa yelped and swerved. Her front wheel caught a puddle and she spun and flipped, landing on her side in a ditch just past the shoulder.

  For a second, she lay there in shock. Her shoulder ached.

  Slowly, she got up, trembling.

  Mud and gravel had dug into her palms, but she was okay.

  She rubbed her shoulder and looked around, trying to find the figure who’d darted past.

  She spotted him, vanishing into the darkness of the road.

  Before she had time to think about it, she was running. Out of breath. These stupid red boots. Her shoulder killed. It was too late. The figure in the distance had gotten too far ahead, had darted off down a side road.

  A fresh gush of rain fell hard into her eyes, causing her to blink rapidly. She could taste its harsh salt on her tongue.

  She felt like she was going crazy.

  She could swear the person she’d just seen was Patrick Donovan.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Before

  1/6

  Dear Diary,

  She’s late. Again. Kittttt!!!!!

  Sigh. First, I have to work all day only two days before we go back to school (sale season). Then I don’t even get my ride home, and Margaret says I have to close up. I can’t believe she left the shop keys with me. She must really trust me.

  So now here I am alone at Lupine, the lights off, windows edged in frost. Outside, traffic inches along Main Street. I can see windshield wipers going strong, taillights trailing dim red lines on the salted road.

  There’s been a total of fourteen inches of snow this winter, and it’s not even the end of the first week of January—they’re saying that’s the heaviest snowfall in sixteen years, which I guess means the last time it was this bad, my mom was pregnant with me.

  I can’t believe it’s the new year already. Christmas came and went. Presents were wrapped and then immediately unwrapped. Mom got Kit a tablet with this electronic pen thingy to replace her notebook and Tessa new boots, which she immediately broke in so they’d look as distressed as her last pair. I got a couple gift cards and a new comforter I had been coveting. And we got Mom a bunch of books and the new bird feeder she wanted.

  Kit also took Tessa out on the road yesterday to practice driving in Mom’s car. I came along, which I deeply regret, because I was 100 percent convinced we were going to die every time she accelerated past thirty-five miles per hour. Still, it was kind of fun. It’s a whole year before I even get my permit.

  I’m always the one who has to wait for everything.

  Anyway. Patrick came into the shop earlier today. He was glowing, I swear, full of energy like he’d just downed three Red Bulls. He told me he felt bad he didn’t have a present for me on Christmas and even though it was going to be a couple weeks late at this point, he asked what I wanted. I pointed out that I hadn’t gotten him anything either (P.S. Does this mean we’re at gift-giving status already???), but he just grabbed my hands and pulled me down one of the clothes aisles, going, “Just tell me what you want. Anything.” He grabbed a dress from a nearby hanger. “This? Or this?” He lets it go and grabs a scarf. “Or this?” By that point I was laughing, while also trying to refold everything and put it back.

  It was fun. And sweet. But I guess if I’m being honest, it was also a little strange. He’s not normally the bubbly, laughing type.

  Then he goes, “Oh, I know . . . THAT.” He was pointing to the boy shorts and bra set he’d teased me about what feels like a zillion years ago. They are no longer in the window display, but they’re still full price.

  Anyway, I’m sure I was blushing like crazy. “Seriously, you don’t need to get me anything.”

  But . . . Diary. I knew what I wanted. This.

  This feeling he brings out in me. That’s it. That’s honestly all I want.

  “Since when are you so loaded?” I said. “Is there someone else you’re writing papers for now that I should know about?”

  “You jealous?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “No!”

  “Good. And no, not cheating money. Just got a little cash,” he says. “Just an old thing I pawned. Turned out to be worth more than I thought.”

  Oh, hold on—I think this is Kit. Finally!!!!!!!!

  Lilly shoved her diary into her shoulder bag and hopped off the front counter where she’d been sitting as Kit finally came bursting through the door, setting off the jingly bells above and letting in a gust of snowy air.

  “Where have you been?”

  Kit’s eyes were bright, her lashes wet and dark as black spiders. “Really sorry, Lil. Hey, can I use the bathroom before we go?” It wasn’t really a question—she was already halfway through the store, heading to the back.

  “I mean, sure,” Lilly muttered. “It’s not like I have anything better to do than keep waiting.”

  When Kit emerged a couple minutes later, Lilly could swear she looked different somehow, and it wasn’t just the recent haircut. She had on her backpack, her golden hair pressed down under a
white wool hat and her cheeks still bright pink from the cold, but there was something else. . . .

  They threw their bags into the back, then Lilly slid into the passenger seat and sighed audibly as Kit started the engine.

  “Everything okay?” Kit asked, staring ahead at the road.

  “With me? Yeah, I guess,” Lilly said, even though it wasn’t really true—her entire life seemed like it was whirling away from her in a spiraling storm. “The question is whether you’re okay.”

  “Oh, I’m good,” Kit said, still not looking at her.

  Silence. Lilly felt her annoyance filling up the space between them like a taut balloon. “Really good, maybe,” she finally muttered.

  “Lilly, please.”

  “What?” she turned to her sister, who was still facing the road.

  “I don’t want to deal with your . . . you know.” From the side, in the darkness of the car, Kit looked older than usual. More serious.

  Lilly folded her arms. “My what.”

  “Your comments. Insinuations, or whatever.”

  Lilly huffed. “So now I’m not allowed to talk?”

  “Oh, you can talk.” Kit smiled. “If it’s about the weather or something.”

  “You sound just like Tessa. I thought she was the bitchy one, but I guess everyone is switching roles these days.”

  Kit said nothing.

  Snowflakes hit the windshield and melted. Lilly realized it’d been taking a long time for the car to heat up. Normally, if Kit had just returned from a volunteer route, the car would be toasty because she spent more time in it, between houses, than in any one house along the way.

  Maybe she’d stopped somewhere longer than usual tonight. Maybe that was why she was late.

  Stopped somewhere to meet someone. In secret.

  Lilly sighed again, taking off her gloves and rubbing her hands together. “I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on. That’s all I want. I just want to know. What do you think I’ll do—run and tell Mom? Because I won’t. And I won’t try and get in your way or tell you what to do—even though you obviously don’t hesitate to tell me what to do. But I wouldn’t, I swear.” The words spilled out of her and she couldn’t stop them. “Everyone’s hiding from me. No one’s telling me things. It’s horrible and it’s not fair. I didn’t do anything to deserve that.”

  She knew she was pouting and probably sounded juvenile but who cared?

  “You used to tell me things,” she added, quieter.

  “Well, things change, sis.” Kit shrugged, but there was a slight catch in her voice.

  “No—you’ve changed. And I don’t like this Kit.”

  “Meanwhile, you’re the same old Lilly—always spying on me and Tess, begging to be let into our rooms and our secrets instead of just living your own life.”

  “I am living my own life, and if you weren’t so obsessed with your own drama these days, you would know that.”

  Kit turned to face her. “What do you mean? Are you still seeing that Patrick kid?”

  Lilly looked at the stains on the windshield. “Not telling. If you don’t, I don’t.”

  “Fine.” Kit turned back to the road.

  “Fine.”

  They were silent most of the way home. As she parked the car, Kit looked down at her hands. “Lilly. I’m sorry.”

  Lilly looked at her, but Kit wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “For telling you what to do,” Kit added. “It’s not my business. You were right. I just want you . . . I just want us . . . to be happy.”

  Then she got out of the car, leaving Lilly alone to wonder what that meant, what to feel, what had gone wrong. Because it wasn’t until Kit said she wanted them to be happy that the cold truth engulfed Lilly like a tidal wave: they weren’t happy anymore, were they?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now

  FEBRUARY 11

  PATRICK DODGED THE ONCOMING HEADLIGHTS and kept running, even as a new rush of rain slammed into his face and eyes like tiny bullets. He heard the bike swerve and the crunch of gravel behind him, sending a surge of adrenaline through him, urging him on, almost numbing the ache in his back and delts and neck.

  He’d barely slept in about seventy-two hours. He still regretted selling the motorcycle, but at least he had been able to nod off on the bus home. It hadn’t lasted long, though: there’d been a woman behind him with two screaming little kids who took turns kicking the back of his seat and wailing for most of the ride. His jaw was still tense from clenching.

  It was far from the bus station to the Donovans’ house, especially in the rain, but he wasn’t going to try hitchhiking for fear of rousing suspicion about his return. And it wasn’t like he could afford to call a cab. He was clean out of cash. Again.

  Pawning the ring had gotten him pretty far—all the way to Vermont, and almost a week in. But that turned out to be a shit show. He’d found a “commune” that was more like a halfway house, most of the ratty furniture ridden with lice, the corners of the cupboards lined with trails of mouse turds, and the floors prickly with the remnants of broken bottles. The place basically reeked of piss and cigarettes and body odor, and the handful of other residents depressed him—usually they were staring glassy-eyed at a wall or causing an angry commotion in the hall. As far as he could tell, most of them didn’t have jobs, so he wasn’t sure how they paid for the $11-a-night rent or the booze and dirty-looking pill bottles some of them kept squirreled away.

  That had lasted two nights. Then he slept in a barn one night, underneath a pile of old coats, which had been so cold and uncomfortable that he’d spent most of the night awake, shaking.

  It sucked, having nowhere to go. There were a lot of things he could’ve tried. Maybe move to a big city to look for work. Try to get his GED, then apply for a scholarship somewhere. He’d even gone to the local library to use the internet to search for jobs, finally, but in a moment of weakness he’d started poking around on social media. That’s how he learned what had really happened the night he left Devil’s Lake. How the Malloy sister died—froze to death, people said, after a nasty, violent fight with a boy she’d trusted.

  And that was when he knew he did have a place to go, as hard as it would be to come back. He had to return to Devil’s Lake.

  He had to explain his side.

  His clothes were drenched by the time he turned down the familiar cul-de-sac and approached the house—dark except for a lamp burning in the window of Uncle Liam’s study. He couldn’t really see in, but there were no shadows, no signs of movement. His great-uncle had probably fallen asleep at his desk, like he sometimes did.

  Patrick stood in the yard, the wet, unmown grass straggly from melted snow, as he tried to figure out what to do. It was late. He didn’t want to scare Aunt Diane. He wandered to the front of the house, debating whether to knock and wake them up. Or would it be better to try the back door to see if it was unlocked?

  He heard a rustle in the distance and turned. At the edge of the woods, where the street dead-ended in a cement circle, a form was moving among the trees.

  Instantly all the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and the rain suddenly seemed colder, harsher, the dark more dangerous.

  He stepped away from the house and into the street, approaching slowly. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  No response.

  More movement—not hurried or furtive, but deliberate and slow, like whoever was out there was focused on a task. Something shimmered, like wet silver or glass, as the person crouched down. Hiding?

  He stepped closer still, hesitant to leave the weak halo of the single street lamp. “Who’s out there?” he asked again.

  A twig snapped, and Patrick heard angry mumbling.

  By now he was only about ten feet from the start of the woods. Something caught the light again. A pair of glasses.

  Patrick’s pulse went into his throat. “Uncle Liam? Is that you?”

  More mumbling.

  Patrick hurried into t
he woods and discovered his great-uncle squatting in the rain. In his hands was a—now soaking wet—blue parka. It looked like it was a women’s cut, possibly an old coat of Diane’s.

  He bent over his uncle and put his hand on his back. “Come on, Uncle Liam, it’s time to go inside. It’s raining. How long have you been out here, anyway? And let’s take this in too, to dry off.”

  Liam looked up at him then, rain misting his glasses. “She might need it.”

  “Who might?”

  “Sarah. She was out here alone. She was crying.”

  “Who’s Sarah?”

  Liam swallowed. “We were engaged, you know. She gave me back the ring. Didn’t want it. Beautiful sapphire ring. More than a semester’s tuition, that ring. That was before.” He looked down at his hands, still clutching the corner of the parka, then back up at Patrick, confusion now written on his brow. “Is that you, boy?”

  “It’s me. Patrick. Let me help you inside.”

  Liam finally put his hand in Patrick’s and allowed himself to be lifted to standing. But when Patrick bent down to pick up the coat, Liam shook his head, resisting. “No. Leave it. She may need it. She was so cold. So cold. She cried herself to sleep.”

  “Who did?” Patrick asked, giving up on the coat. He could go back and get it later.

  “Sarah.”

  A chill ran up his spine. “When was this?”

  Liam shook his head. “Don’t know. Winter. Maybe I dreamed it. Just like the fairy tale.”

  Patrick’s chest felt like ice. “What did you see, Liam?”

  What did you see, Patrick? he heard in his head. Her urgent, pleading voice. The sister.

  Liam smiled now. “A princess asleep.”

  Patrick swallowed. “You shouldn’t be out in the woods alone at night. It’s not safe,” he said. “For anyone.”

  He got his great-uncle to the front door and pushed. It was unlocked. Of course—Liam must have left it that way when he came outside, whenever that was.

  Diane—her gray hair loose and wild—stood on the bottom stair in the dark, holding an unplugged lamp as though she was about to swing it like a bat. When she saw Patrick holding up her husband, she gasped, letting the lamp drop as her other hand reached up to cover her mouth. The lamp rolled onto the floor but didn’t break. For some reason, Patrick was grateful. Shattered glass would have been too much.