A Wicked Snow

How lost can you get on an island? she thought.

But a second later, a news report jolted her like seeing a kid dart in front of a speeding car on rain-soaked pavement. It couldn’t be. Hannah slammed on the brakes and pushed the volume control to its loudest setting. The reception on the remote island crackled. At first she thought she misheard it, but as the piece wrapped up, she knew her ears had not played tricks on her.

“Paine was best known for her role as the prosecutor in the infamous Claire Logan/Marcus Wheaton murder and arson case. Her assailant is still at large.”

“Oh God…” she said, “Not Mrs. Paine. …Notnow.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

If there was a god to thank, it was for the fact that no one recognized Hannah Griffin as the media began its swarm of Alaska’s ruggedly gorgeous and now mysterious Kodiak Island. Two affiliates from Anchorage and one of the syndicated tabloid magazine shows had already begun their descent on the island, and it wasn’t even a ratings period. Claire Logan was vintage, albeit sinister, Americana. She was the boogie woman. Even if she wasn’t around. Or if she had died twenty years ago. The murder of the Oregon prosecutor who had put her away was the cherry on top of the sundae. And if Louise Wallace had made good on her threat to call the sheriff on Hannah, well so much the better for the reporters circling the island.

As she approached, Hannah saw Bauer talking to a woman in front of the motel office. She wore a hideous faux-leopard print that was more Frederick’s of, than merely Hollywood. Even before she turned around, Hannah knew it was DF.

She barely acknowledged the author/reporter. “Isn’t there some other motel on this island?” Hannah asked Bauer.

Bauer cracked a nervous smile. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Hoffman snuffed out her menthol with a sharp twist of her calf-length boot. She didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, hi, Hannah! Isn’t this exciting?” she said. “We’re all together. I haven’t told anyone but my producer that you’re here. I’ll stay away,” she said, making the motion across her collagen-souffle lips, “for the exclusive.”

“Fine, Marcella,” Hannah said, though she had no intention of ever going on camera with DF or any other reporter.

“Doug!” Hoffman called out to a young man slumped over by his rusted-out van. He was weighted down with spools of wire and a camera the size of a microwave. Clearly annoyed, Doug Jackson nodded. Hoffman continued, “We’re going up to First Methodist to see if we can shake loose some of Louise Wallace’s old friends. For balance. My whole career has been built on balance.”

Hannah barely glanced at Hoffman. “I forgot,” she said.

“I thought we were getting along. I don’t know why you have to be so harsh.”

Bauer did his best to brush off Hoffman. “Well, sorry I can’t talk. You’ll have to go through Portland PR. But, of course, you’ll be wasting your time until after the investigation concludes.”

“Still so ethical,” Hoffman said. “And so handsome. You’ve really grown into your skin since Rock Point.”

Bauer turned a shade of pink that matched Hannah’s rental car. “Good luck, Ms. Hoffman,” he said, while wishing more than anything that the overburdened cameraman would drop the camera on Hoffman’s head.

Bauer followed Hannah inside the office.

“I think she likes you,” Hannah said.

“Like a cobra.”

Hannah asked the front clerk for any messages. None from Ethan; two from Ripperton. She folded them and tucked them inside the front flap of her purse.

“There something I want to talk to you about,” she said as they walked toward the hallway.

“I know you went and saw her.”

“Yes, but that’s not it. That isn’t really what’s on my mind.”

Bauer was puzzled. “What do you mean? You just went and saw Louise Wallace. And it isn’t on your mind?”

Hannah kept a step ahead of Bauer as they walked the long dark hallway toward their rooms in the minuscule no-smoking section of the motel—just four rooms. Bauer put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around. Her eyes were weary.

“What do you think? About Louise?”

“I don’t know. I feel incredibly foolish. I don’t know if she’s my mother or not. But that’s not what’s on my mind, Jeff. I want to talk about something I’ve never shared before. Not even with Ethan or my Aunt Leanna. No one.”

They started walking again. “I guess I feel honored,” he said.

“Reserve judgment. Once I tell you, you might not feel so inclined.”

It was after 2 p.m., too late for lunch and too early for dinner. “Want to talk in your room?” he asked.

“You’ve got the honor bar.”

He laughed. “Nope. No honor bar at the Northern Lights.”

“I could smell it on you this morning.”

Bauer stuck the key into the lock and turned the knob. “All right,” he said. I have a bottle in my room. Come on in.” He poured them both a shot of Wild Turkey and took a seat on the sole chair in the room outfitted with a TV, a nightstand, and twin double beds. Hannah sat on the bed closest to the window. Light from outside cut through the split between the dark green curtains. Her eyes were puffy. And for a moment, Bauer was back in Rock Point, Oregon. He could see the frightened little girl who had grown into the beautiful and accomplished woman. He remembered how her hair had hung in her eyes, a shield from what was going on around her. He recalled how quiet she was at first, then how she talked in an endless stream without coming up for air.

Bauer had never forgotten what had happened. And the moments he had counted as the most meaningful of his life were those weeks before the Wheaton arson trial when he had comforted the young girl. Not chasing Claire Logan because she had killed twenty people, but because she had left behind a terrified and lonely little girl who would have no choice but to live with the sins of her mother for the rest of her life. He felt as though he had been her protector. He never could forget the little girl.

As she sipped her drink, she started to talk. Before she was finished, Hannah Logan Griffin had downed the rest of Bauer’s booze and unleashed the Pandora’s box of demons and nightmares that had haunted her for twenty years. Hannah wasn’t like the girl who had been raped by a family friend and kept her mouth quiet so long that she suppressed what she knew to be true. The imprint on her brain was so indelible that Hannah just compartmentalized it. Stored it. Locked it up. It was always there ticking, reminding her like a slit wrist that never healed.

She remembered it was about half an hour before midnight when the noise outside and the chill of the December night awoke her. She remembered hearing her mother’s and Marcus Wheaton’s voices.

“I wasn’t frightened when I went back to sleep,” she told Bauer, sitting on the edge of the bed in his motel room. “But I’m frightened now.” Bauer could see her trembling hands attempt to mimic steadiness as she rested the glass of liquor on her lap.

“What is it, Hannah?” he asked.

She held her fingers to her lips. She looked fragile, wan. She was a splinter, ready to break. Without warning, the motel room seemed to contract like the wheezing lungs of an old man. It was spinning and heaving. Hannah groped for something to steady herself. To reach for Jeff Bauer. Blood drained from her face. For a split second, she thought she might vomit. She was white.

“You okay?” Bauer held Hannah’s hand, but it was limp and warm. Unresponsive. Her eyes were impassive, staring into something far away. He moved his hand to her shoulders and gently rocked