SUSAN TIPPETT BRAITHWAITE

The growl of the snowmobile halted somewhere close to their tiny cave hideout. Kelvin raised a finger to his lips for silence.

“What if it’s not one of them? What if it’s part of a search party?” The last shred of hope that Amy had fizzled away at the dark look on Kelvin’s face. “Someone must have heard us crash.”

Kelvin gripped her arms. “What part of shhh don’t you understand? Have you got a death wish I don’t know about? Because if you do, I’ll happily oblige.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Stay here and keep quiet—if you can.” He grabbed the mirror he’d yanked from her aircraft from his backpack, then stowed the bag at the back of the cave. “I’ll be back when it’s safe.”

Amy watched with mild curiosity as Kelvin scrubbed the mirror over the dust and charcoal on the ground. He inched to the mouth of the cave, past the branches at the entrance, peering into the mirror as he held it out like he was trying to get cell reception. And without a backward glance, he was gone.

For the first time since she’d agreed to fly him out west, she was alone. Well, not quite. He’d left his pack, with its precious cargo. This whole ordeal was over whatever the hell was in that lockbox.

Amy scrabbled over to the bag. She lifted the box out, taking the time to check for any food Kelvin could be hiding from her—no such luck. The box looked like it was welded shut, and had no visible lock on it. What the hell?

At the sound of crunching snow, she shoved the box back into the backpack. Amy turned and plopped onto her backside with what she hoped looked like the face of innocence. “I guess it’s…” The words died on her tongue as she locked eyes with the man in front of her.

The man standing before her wasn’t Kelvin. Fresh cuts and a split lip marred the man’s pretty-boy face. “Your boyfriend’s dead.”