Quinn stood up and reached down, grabbed Abigail’s hands and pulled her to her feet.
“Help me get her boots on, Jen. Don’t want her found barefoot.”
“Actually, it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.”
“No, when people get hypothermia, start freezing to death out in the wilderness, they’re often found half- naked. They go out of their mind, think they’re warm, start stripping off layers of clothing. Just leave her boots here. I’ll make sure they disappear.”
“Can you walk, Abigail?”
“Of course I know how to walk.”
She felt weightless on her feet, moving slowly and deliberately out of the kitchen into the hallway. At an ovular mirror, she stopped and regarded herself, leaning in close, her nose flattened against the glass.
“We could still not do this, Quinn.”
“Stop now? After everything I’ve done? No payoff for any of it? That’d be the worst outcome. No, we’re all in.”
Abigail’s pupils had been reduced to grains of black sand.
She turned away from the mirror and continued on toward the front door.
“Jen, this won’t have been worth it . . . for Julius, for Grandpa, Dad, you and me, if we let the guilt crush us.”
As Abigail reached for the doorknob, she saw her muddy jacket hanging from the coatrack. She lifted it off the hook, kept turning it around, searching for the armholes.
Quinn took it from her, held it by the collar, and Jennifer helped guide her arms into the sleeves.
“Would Dad have taken it this far?”
“Hard to say. We’re doing this for all of them, you know.”
Jennifer unlocked and opened the door and Abigail stepped out onto the porch.
Snow tumbled in the vicinity of distant streetlamps, and Abigail wondered how it could be snowing only in those select globes of light.
“God, it’s beautiful,” the sheriff said.
Abigail found the zippers and worked them open, shoved her hands into the pockets.
They helped her down the steps into snow not quite deep enough to cover the spear tips of the longest grass blades.
“We doing right here?” Jennifer said.
“If you can live with yourself, does it matter?”
“
“I think so. We just have to forget a few days of questionable behavior.”
They moved down past the grove of baby aspen and the sheriff’s Expedition, gravel crunching under their boots and slippers and Abigail’s bare feet, unfazed by the cold.
They arrived at the Bronco, Quinn already opening the front passenger door.
Abigail stopped at the grille, Jennifer beside her, snow melting on the warmed metal of the hood.
Quinn slapped the roof. “Come on. Get in.”
In the right pocket of her jacket, Abigail’s fingers touched something cool and hard. It took five seconds of feeling it to identify the object, and still she couldn’t think of its name, only its function.
“Jennifer,” she said, “you know, I forgot all about this.”
“What?”
Abigail turned and pressed it into her satin nightgown, then faced Quinn, ears ringing as the sheriff went groaning to her knees, blood sprinkling in the snow.
“You didn’t mean what you said about helping my father, did you? You just want—”
“Abigail, you’re fucked-up on the meds. We’re trying to help you and your father here.”
Jennifer crawled back toward the house, and for a moment, Abigail wondered if maybe Quinn was right.
“You didn’t mean to shoot her, Abigail. Now give me the gun. My sister’s gonna die if we don’t—”
It made a small black spot an inch below Quinn’s right eye.
Blood ran down his cheek.
He reached up and scraped at the hole with his fingernails, like he’d been stung and was trying to dig out the stinger.
Abigail looked back at the Victorian house, where Jennifer had dragged herself up onto the porch and come to an impasse at the front door.
The sheriff cried out, “Oh God!”
