Frozen Beauty

by Lexa Hillyer

  “What are you—how did you—”

  “I came back,” Patrick said, keeping his voice low and steady. “I saw him outside. He was in the trees at the edge of the road. . . .”

  His great-aunt seemed to snap out of her shock then. “Well, come in, come in,” she said in a hurried whisper, pulling them both through the doorway, then glancing around the dark yard once before closing the door. “Help me get him to bed.”

  For the next thirty minutes, she was all business, ushering Patrick up the stairs with Liam still leaning on him. Handing them both towels to dry off from the rain. Fetching Liam clean, dry pajamas. Finally his great-uncle was in his own bed, snoring, and Patrick turned to his aunt in the darkened bedroom, watching her shoulders slump with exhaustion.

  “You should sleep too,” he said. “We can talk in the morning. I mean, if it’s okay for me to . . . for me to stay.”

  She took his arm and led him out into the hallway, then sat on the top stair, gesturing for him to sit beside her. She put her head in her hands, and it took him a moment to realize she was crying.

  Should he put a hand on her back? What do you do when an old woman cries? Was it his fault? Probably.

  “He’s gotten worse,” she said quietly. “We have no help. There’s no one. We’re off the volunteer route. No one will come.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling like his heart would break. “I’m so sorry I left. I know you needed me. It was . . . it was selfish,” he said, suddenly recognizing how true that was. He had fucked up. Again. Maybe he was doomed to never get things right.

  Diane shook her head. “I will have to tell them.”

  “Tell them?”

  “The police.” Her voice was hoarse and tired. “They said—they have to know. They’ve been asking. Were asking. They have a suspect; it’s expected to go to trial, but. But they told me if I ever found out where you were—oh, Patrick, it’s not safe for you here. I don’t know what you’ve done. I don’t know what to do.”

  Her soft words fell onto him, heavy—like damp soil collapsing in on itself, becoming a landslide.

  “And I know,” she went on. “I know you did something. I know you were . . . you were taking things from us.” She shook her head, not looking at him.

  His throat was full of lead. “We’ll talk to them,” he said, forcing the words out past the invisible metal choking him. “Tomorrow. I’ll go in. I promise. I have nothing—” He paused and cleared his throat. “Nothing to hide. I’ll tell them everything.”

  He wanted to put an arm around her, but he didn’t. He just sat there beside her, cold all over—cold and damp on the inside, really. In his chest an ache; his whole body a cave, hollow.

  Sun poured through the streaked attic windows the next morning, and Patrick squinted, rolling over in bed, forgetting for a moment where he was. Forgetting that he was home. Then remembering.

  Then remembering there was no home.

  We fought, he recited in his head. I knew she was distressed. Maybe it was my fault she was so upset. I didn’t know what to do.

  Was there any point? Would he end up in jail like Boyd? Could it be any worse than the mental prison he’d been living in this past week? He left—he left all of them. Why had he thought they’d want him back?

  He closed his eyes again and saw a girl’s face, white with rage, white with the cold, her eyes blazing like hot ice, the forest closing around them, the snow coming down so hard that night. It had been like a snow globe, but a nightmare one. Everything turned upside down, unglued. How the flurries falling in his eyes had unhinged him. It wasn’t just her, daring to intervene, to accuse, to cut into him, into the truth—it was her on top of everything else. On top of the pain in his ribs when he thought of Lilly and what she thought of him now. It was one more person calling him a loser, telling him there was no way out.

  He knew that trick. There were two options: let yourself be buried in the snow, weighty and numbing and suffocating—or run. Run, run, run until you’ve burned away the pain, until the place you’re running from isn’t even a speck in the distance anymore, is hardly a pinprick of sadness at the very back of your mind.

  So that’s what he’d done. Run.

  He got up now and got dressed—his hands shook as he selected a sensible-looking shirt from Liam’s closet. A shirt that said, I swear I didn’t do it. I may even know who did.

  Diane had cooked Sunday breakfast, but he couldn’t stomach it. She handed him toast wrapped in a napkin, and her keys; he dropped the former into the trash can out front before getting into her car, which smelled like pine and must.

  He pulled out of the driveway, then drove toward the mouth of the cul-de-sac where it spilled straight out onto Route 28.

  But he never made it to the police station, or even onto the main road.

  Because a big red pickup truck was turning onto his street, blocking his way out.

  For a minute, the sun reflected back, glaring, from the windshield, and he couldn’t see who was driving. But then he did. The Taylor kid.

  Boyd got out of his truck—he was even taller than Patrick remembered, and not wearing that hunting hat he basically had glued to his head all fall.

  He turned off the engine as Boyd approached. Patrick got out of the car, trying to play it cool, even though his brain was screaming—What’s he doing here? “Can I, um, help you?”

  Boyd’s open face contorted into what could only be called a sneer. He shook his head. “I mean, you dare to come back around here, like nothing has happened. I had to sit around in jail this whole time.”

  “How did you get out?” Bail had been posted at $25,000, from what he’d read. There was no way Innis Taylor—or anyone around here—had that kind of money lying around.

  “My dad finally scraped up enough for a bail bond.”

  “Oh.” He’d heard of that. A bond where you paid a small percentage of the bail. You could spend the rest of your life paying down the remainder. “Boyd, you should know I never—”

  “Let me ask you something,” Boyd said, one foot in front of the other, like he was prepared to lunge. “How do you think it looks? What, are you just gonna come crawling home with your tail between your legs and act like you know nothing? She’s dead, dude.” His voice got hoarser here. Patrick said nothing.

  “You ran off without a word that night,” he went on. “I don’t know why you came back, but I’m not fucking leaving this spot until you spit out the truth.”

  He was only standing about five feet away, and Patrick was starting to feel claustrophobic, trapped with his back inches from Diane’s car. “I don’t owe you anything, and what I do or don’t know about that night is none of your business. Besides, I only know Lilly. I hardly knew her sisters—”

  “Oh, you knew them. You knew Kit, didn’t you? A lot better than you’d like us to think,” Boyd practically spat. “I know what was going on between you two. And I’m not taking the fall for you.”

  Patrick’s head was spinning. “Nothing was going on.”

  He scoffed. “You would say that now.”

  “If you think I was into Kit, you’re high, dude,” Patrick said, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck.

  “I didn’t believe it at first,” Boyd went on. “That she could have a thing for you. She said it was wrong. Someone with a history of being a shithead. That could mean a lot of things. Who knows, maybe if you hadn’t disappeared, I never would have guessed.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, and you really need to get out of my way,” Patrick said, taking a step toward Boyd. Whatever he was rambling about needed to end, and it needed to end now, before things got even more out of hand.

  “It’s so obvious now, though,” Boyd said, ignoring him. “She was wearing that stuff from Lilly’s store. The bra. Which you stole.” As he ranted, he moved closer. Patrick could practically feel the hot anger pulsing off him. “It all makes sense now. You were two-timing with both sisters. Maybe Kit fo
und out and wanted to tell. But you didn’t want her to, did you? You fucking wanted to silence her, didn’t you?” Boyd’s face was red, and he was only a couple feet from Patrick now. “Didn’t you?”

  “Back off, Boyd. I didn’t steal anything, and I didn’t hurt Katherine Malloy, or anyone. I didn’t touch her. I don’t need to answer to you. If you ask me, you’re the one who wants to fuck all those sisters. Maybe you should be questioning your own motives.”

  Boyd’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me, what?”

  Patrick’s jaw and fists went hard. “You heard me. You have always had a blatant hard-on for all three Malloy girls, and if anyone was messing around, it’s you. You act like you own them. So step back and get into your truck. This is over.”

  He turned to get back into Diane’s car, but Boyd grabbed his shoulder.

  “Don’t you ever talk about them that way. You’re scum, you know that?”

  Patrick swiveled, pushing his arm away, a little too hard. “I said back off. If I were you, I’d get in your car if you don’t want to get run over.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Boyd’s eyes were wide, his neck muscles pulsing.

  “Should I be?”

  “You’re a fucking loser and a fucking killer, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “I said back off,” Patrick said, rearing on Boyd and shoving him.

  Boyd returned with a punch, his fist making contact with Patrick’s jaw. Patrick felt his teeth clamp down on his tongue, tasting blood as he reeled, stumbling back against the car.

  He pushed himself up to standing and lunged at Boyd, throwing himself at him without thinking. He grabbed Boyd’s shoulders and butted his forehead into Boyd’s face.

  Blood spurted from Boyd’s nose as Patrick watched him fall to the ground, catching himself on his elbow and clutching his face. “Whatthefuck,” he kept saying.

  Shaking, Patrick got into his car and drove off, away from Boyd, who was still lying on the pavement in the cul-de-sac. He skirted the truck, barely missing the fender, and squealed out onto 28.

  He couldn’t go to the cops now. Not like this. He stared at his bloodied fist, wrapped around the steering wheel. His jaw killed, and he could see in the rearview mirror that a yellowy-purple bruise was already blooming. His hip hurt from where something—the car handle, maybe—had dug into his skin.

  Returning to Devil’s Lake had been a huge mistake.

  He was tempted to hit the gas hard and get out of town again, keep driving and never return.

  He would’ve done it, too, but even as Diane’s old car started to sputter, he knew he had nowhere to go. Devil’s Lake felt like his fate. He had to come back and face it head-on.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Now

  FEBRUARY 12

  THE RAIN HAD CLEARED OVERNIGHT, and so had Tessa’s mind. It had been Patrick she’d seen on the street, and now she had to find out why he was back. She skipped her shift at the Deviled Egg. She’d probably lose her job there for not at least calling. But she couldn’t bear it—couldn’t bear to act like life was normal. And she was tired of this constant feeling of waiting for the truth, like she was some trapped princess, locked in an icy casket. It had been a full week now. If Boyd was about to plead guilty for this thing, she needed to act, and it needed to be fast.

  Patrick was outside when she arrived—his legs, in a dirty pair of jeans, sticking out from underneath an old car in the driveway. Mrs. Donovan’s car. Tessa could hear clanking and watched as he reached for a wrench lying beside him on the pavement. She stood there a moment, trying to figure out what to say, when she heard him mutter to himself and then scooch out from under the car, wiping his hands on a white rag.

  A dark stain was streaked across his T-shirt and forehead . . . and an ugly bruise bloomed low on his jaw.

  “Oh, shit,” he said when he noticed her standing there. “It’s . . . you.” He squinted at her, like the sun was too bright for him to be sure who he was really looking at.

  He sat up, shielding his eyes with one hand. When he dropped his hand, she could see he looked . . . afraid, almost. Tired, too. Shadows laced his eyes; his dark hair looked shaggy and unkempt behind the ears.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “For better or for worse,” he said slowly, getting to his feet. He took a step back, and she noticed he was looking at her warily. As if he was afraid. Her pulse kicked up. Why would he be afraid . . . unless he had something to hide?

  “Please,” she said quietly. “I just need to know the truth. Did you see Kit that night? That night she . . .”

  She held her breath as he opened his mouth to speak. “I did, but it wasn’t just her.”

  “But—”

  “It wasn’t even Kit who made me come out that night in the first place.”

  Tessa stared. “Then . . . then why run away? I’m confused—you were out in the woods that night, but you saw nothing, and still you ran?”

  Patrick shook his head. “She started accusing me of ruining Lilly’s life. She didn’t want us dating. I didn’t really blame her for that, but she was a bitch about it. No offense. Said a lot of nasty stuff about how it was my fault and—”

  “And what?” Tessa shook her head. Kit had never been nasty to anyone. Could he be lying to her face? “So you did see Kit, then?”

  “You’re not listening. She knew stuff about me. Just some stuff I was trying to keep on the down low.”

  “Like . . .”

  Patrick looked at his hands, covered in grease. “Just some tests I’d taken for other kids. And . . . some things I took. A ring. She was mad about the ring.”

  “What ring?” Tessa’s heart nearly stopped. “Was it . . . this?” She held her hand out to him, where the sapphire ring sat on her fourth finger, glimmering in the sun.

  Patrick gaped. “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it,” she said. “In the woods. Was it . . . yours?”

  Patrick shook his head. “I stole it . . .” His voice dropped low. “From them.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the house. “I felt bad about it, but I needed the money. I pawned it, though. Back in December. I thought it was long gone.”

  Either he was a slick liar, or he was telling the truth. And if this was the truth, then who’d bought the ring, and why was it in the woods, and why had Kit known about it?

  “So what happened? She was shouting about the ring, you said. Then what?”

  “Then I told her some things are just broken and should stay broken. Something like that, anyway. Then I just . . . I left.” Patrick hung his head. “It was the last straw. I had my own shit to deal with. I had to get out. I’d been planning to. I’d been saving up the money. All I needed to do was offload a few pills—one last burst of cash. It was all I needed. There had only been one thing holding me here, and now that was over too. So it was time. I couldn’t stand to see one more person who hated me.”

  “Kit hated you?” she whispered.

  “You’re not listening,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t just Kit I saw that night.”

  He yanked the rag out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it. Tessa wondered if he was about to cry. If she was about to cry. She didn’t know what to make of his story.

  “Who else then?”

  His hand fumbled, and he dropped the rag on the ground.

  Tessa bent down to pick it up, but he leaned at the same time to grab it first. And that was when something caught her eye. On the rag—which filtered through her fingers, surprisingly silky, like a torn piece of clothing.

  And there was a strawberry cutout in the corner.

  She knew that piece of clothing.

  It was Kit’s shirt. She’d loved that white blouse. It was missing from her closet. Tessa had been looking for it just yesterday.

  Maybe, maybe, it was the shirt Kit had been wearing that night.

  Tessa stared up at Patrick, her hands suddenly trembling. She swallowed, backing up. “Liar,” she breathed, har
dly able to get the words out past the fear clogging her chest. “All of it. Lies.”

  “No,” he said, stepping toward her.

  “Don’t touch me.” She backed up farther.

  “Please, don’t do this,” Patrick said. He reached for her again and she turned, running.

  She didn’t stop, veering straight off the road and into the trees.

  At first she thought she’d lost him, but then she heard footsteps. Twigs breaking in quick succession. Someone had followed her. A panicked noise wrestled from her throat and she slammed her hand in front of her mouth. But whoever it was—it must be him—had heard, because the footsteps came closer. She ran harder, branches lashing her face. Why hadn’t she just run the other way, toward the road, and hailed someone down for help?

  He had Kit’s torn shirt. He’d admitted to seeing her that night. He’d lied. And Tessa had just stood there, eating up his story. She wasn’t thinking straight.

  He had the shirt. He must have ripped it off her.

  What did he do to her? Was he going to do the same thing to Tessa now?

  Tears pricked at her eyes as she pushed her way through the trees, disoriented, trying to find her way toward the bike path, hoping there would be joggers and other people about on a Sunday afternoon—the sun still hadn’t set, and it sent streaks of light through the branches—but it was winter, and so cold. Still—her heart raced—surely there must be someone—

  But she didn’t make it that far before a strong hand grabbed her roughly, and she fell to the ground with a scream.

  A DARK FORM, RUNNING THROUGH SNOW

  BY KATHERINE MALLOY

  What’s happened to me; where did it all go wrong,

  and how can I undo the damage done?

  You’ve turned into a blur, a smoking gun.