of the day. When I came to the most disturbing part, it brought me back to reality and brought my eyes back to my cheek.
I leaned in closer and rubbed my fingertips over the smooth skin of my cheek. My mouth fell open in astonishment. All that was visible was a few dots of concealer—with nothing to conceal. The scrapes were completely healed.
CHAPTER THREE
A dull throbbing at my right temple woke me. I tried to open my eyes, but a blinding whiteness poured through the cracks. Pain cut through my head like a hot knife. Quickly, I squeezed them shut. I waited a few seconds then opened my eyes again, though just a slit. This time I was prepared for the pain. I waited for it to subside as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. When they finally did, I opened them wider.
Above me were bare tree branches, crisscrossing the sky like bony, dead fingers laced together. Beyond them were ominous gray clouds. They looked like snow. That would explain the brilliance. And the cold.
I was lying on my back and it was freezing. My fingers and toes had lost most of their feeling, but I could still wiggle them. Slowly, I turned my head to follow one of the trees to the ground. At its base, about ten feet away, was a dense patch of mountain laurels. Their evergreen leaves sagged under the weight of a thick dusting of snow. I looked to my right and saw a similar scene. I was in some sort of clearing in the middle of a laurel thicket.
A spot of color drew my eye. A bright red dot marred the fluffy white topping on one leaf. I raised my head a few inches off the ground to get a better look. There was another drop on a lower branch. Then another. And another. I followed the crimson drops across the snow as they neared where I lay. The size and number of them steadily increased the closer they got to me.
I reached out to touch one that was within arm’s reach. I dipped my fingers into the cold snow and scooped up the red drop. The snow didn’t melt in my hand. But it turned pink.
My hand was covered in blood.
A wave of fear washed over me, squeezing the air from my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. I sat up quickly, my head spinning in rebellion. The forest around me spun and swam. I closed my eyes until the vertigo subsided then I slowly opened them again.
I held my hand out in front of me and examined it. I didn’t see any cuts or scrapes, nothing to account for the blood on me or in the snow for that matter. I straightened out my arm. It was covered in blood, too.
Then I looked down.
The pale yellow parka I was wearing was drenched in blood and torn to pieces. My legs were stretched out in front of me and they were saturated as well, the denim shredded. No wonder I was so cold.
I scanned the ground in the clearing. There was blood all around me—splatters and streaks, even puddles. It was pooled between my legs. When I saw what I was sitting in, I hurried to my feet. What was left of my clothing was soaked with it. I could feel the wet weight of it all over my back side, too.
I took stock of all my parts and was relieved that I seemed to be intact. I checked for wounds elsewhere, but again I found none. I waited for pain, but none came. After that, only one thing was on my mind: whose blood was it?
I looked left and right and, besides the blood, the snow was completely undisturbed. There was not so much as a footprint impressed upon its perfect surface. I’d have to question later how I’d gotten to where I was without leaving any trace of which direction I’d come.
I spun in a tight circle, looking around for the source of all that blood. That’s when I saw him.
I managed to stifle the scream that bubbled up in my throat. I stood there, in the bloody snow, motionless, just staring at him.
My first thought was that he was dead. And that I might have killed him. My eyes scanned his long form in a quick once-over, looking for blood and injuries. I didn’t see any. Relief washed over me when I saw his wide chest rising and falling rhythmically.