on the piano illuminates Chopin sheet music, taunting me. Tearing the music in half, I throw it into the trash.
On the kitchen counter beside a bowl of apples is a note: Fresh powder. Home at 16:40. Smørbrød in the fridge.
Crumpling the note in my fist, I storm through the glass double doors into the den.
I observe the impeccably tidy room—folk art displays, antique swords, books seamlessly straight on the shelves.
There is a leather Eames chair in the corner, two pine tables used as desks, and dozens of silver frames scattered among the shelves—photographs of me in Petra, Abu Simbel, Dubrovnik, Samarkand, Ürgenç; standing atop a medieval rampart at Calatrava; dressed in a shimmering, corseted ball gown for a diplomatic gala in Stockholm. I reach for the nearest photograph—the Serengeti. My favorite trip we ever took.
In the foreground, brittle, yellow savanna is visible, crumbling in the sun. I am seated between my parents in the back of a battered blue Toyota, wearing a school uniform, and laughing.
Slipping from my grip, the frame clatters onto my father’s desk.
I miss my former life.
I definitely don’t miss my former life.
But how can this new life be hard too?
Would I really rather leave than stay?
I have to get out of here.
Cold air pierces my lungs.
I head north, away from the center of town.
Waterford is idyllic and charming. For the first time in years, I have friends again—so why am I vexed? Afraid I might never “get over it”? Might never stop being triggered? Never stop fearing threats when none exist?
Has my past eroded my ability to move forward?
The steady rhythm of my feet comforts me. I rehearse the series of numbers—calmly this time—as both a pacesetter and a distraction.
I turn east toward Charlotte’s, halting at the base of Silver Canyon. Her driveway is ahead, though she’ll still be at school.
But somebody else lives this way. I shouldn’t, but curiosity overpowers judgment.
Impulsively, I divert at the fork, veering straight into a steep, rock-walled canyon.
Fluffy snowflakes fall lightly, blowing horizontal in Eagle Pass.
On one side of the canyon, steep granite fissures are laced with miniature waterfalls, frozen solid. On the other side, the woods taper into a rushing, turquoise ravine that eventually estuaries into Waterford Lake.
Eagle Pass narrows until the road becomes one lane masquerading as two. Soon, I switch to the shoulder on the north side of the road, etched into the mountain. Here, the icy road is scattered with blue granules; salt residue provides traction to run safely.
Occasionally, I hear a quiet muffled sound behind me, like a radiator purring. Twice, I turn around. But it’s only the rushing water. I am simply hearing things—every movement a trigger, every sound a threat.
Shaking off the oppressive paranoia, I run harder.
As I ascend, snowflakes fall thicker and heavier; I relish the ethereal sensation.
I’m not cold; I’m wearing a fleece jacket, shorts, sports bra, sneakers, and my favorite Dale of Norway headband-and-mitten set my mother found in a box yesterday.
Reaching a bend in the road, I slow to a jog. The wind is picking up.
Tucking my necklace beneath my jacket, I stop to get my bearings. Although the steep incline slowed my pace, I’ve still run far.
Down the canyon, I see Waterford. Straining my eyes, I calculate the distance home—about seven kilometers. I glance at my watch. Though barely four o’clock, it’s November; the light is already sinking below the horizon.
One thing I have learned about Waterford—positioned in a high alpine valley—darkness falls quickly and with it, the bitter cold of night.
If I run double pace downhill, I’ll return a few minutes after dark. My parents won’t have to worry long—
Abruptly, a high-pitched sound reverberates between the canyon walls.
I go rigid.
Alarmed, I look over to see a car skidding around the bend.
Its horn blazes. The tires shred the ice. I see a blur of olive green.
Somewhere in my subconscious I register that this car is careening across the road—hurtling uncontrollably—at me.
I dive.
CHAPTER 14
Although the packed snowbank is cold, my body feels hot and afraid.
Ten meters away, in the center of the road, is an olive-green Land Rover Defender. The door swings open. A familiar, ruggedly handsome figure emerges.
Reckless. Stupid. What was I thinking?
Aksel is wearing a down sweater and boots. His face is tanned and beautiful, his emerald green eyes are wide and brilliant, and he is racing toward me.
I try to stand; instead, I keep sinking back into the snowdrift I impaled as I dove out of the way.
In seconds, he reaches me.
“I’m fine!” I snap, covering