“Yeah, you’re a good girl,” she said, ruffling the dog’s ears and smiling as Rhapsody spun in excited, tight circles until she was little more than a caramel-colored blur. “Okay, okay, I get it. You get your treat,” she said, retrieving a bottle of red wine from the bag. “And I get mine. Sit.”
Rhapsody sat, eyes focused on Kara until she was tossed a bacon-flavored biscuit. Leaping, the dog caught the treat on the fly, then trotted to the living room to crunch it on her bed while Kara found a corkscrew in a top drawer and went to work.
By the time Rhapsody returned to stand by the door, Kara was pouring wine into a stemmed glass. Sipping the Merlot, she unlocked the door and stepped outside to watch as Rhapsody flew across the patio, startling a winter bird from its perch on a branch. The dog was her best friend—make that her only friend. Her fault. She never trusted any acquaintance she’d made over the years. Too many people had just wanted to get close to her because they were: a） curious about her past, b） wanted something from her, or c） all of the above. Friends just weren’t worth the trouble. Dogs, especially Rhapsody with her undying affection, were so much better. And boyfriends? Ugh. Forget it.
Snow was falling again, tiny, powdery flakes that promised not to let up as another downy layer was added to the four inches that had already accumulated. Rhapsody galloped from one end of the yard to the other, letting off pent-up energy and cutting a new trail in the white mantle. The snowy lawn was long and narrow, giving the dog enough room to run, but surrounded by a fence and barrier of thick, impenetrable arborvitae, rhododendrons and laurel. Enough privacy that Kara couldn’t see her neighbors, nor could they spy on her. Which was perfect. Now the greenery was covered in snow and reminded Kara of the firs and pines flanking the cabin and that horrid night she ran through the woods, the night of the tragedy that had changed her life for— “Stop it!” she said so loudly that Rhapsody, nose buried in the snow near the corner of the house, looked up suddenly, her ears cocked, her eyes ready to focus on an intruder. “Sorry,” Kara said to the dog, then, “Come on. Finish up out here. It’s freezing.”
She took another long swallow of wine and felt herself beginning to warm from the inside out while the dog romped and played in the snow, kicking up white clods and shaking the icy powder from her nose. Oh, to be so carefree, Kara thought wistfully as she heard the faraway sound of a jet engine. She looked skyward, trying to peer through the thick clouds. Somewhere high above was a plane full of people going somewhere, skimming through the night sky to destinations unknown. She blinked, snowflakes catching on her lashes.
What she wouldn’t do to fly away.
To forget.
But she’d already tried that. A trip to Europe years ago. Didn’t help. All the tours and exhibits, the castles and art galleries and the throngs of people couldn’t keep her thoughts from turning back to Cold Lake. The Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Notre Dame in Paris, Big Ben and Buckingham Palace in London, the castles on the Rhine, a villa in Lake Como, a room over a bar in Belfast . . . all was now a blur and the pain still resided, the guilt still held fast. And all the moves she’d made, Portland with Aunt Faiza, then a junior college in California, a transfer to Denver to finally graduate at LSU in Baton Rouge, and still, she hadn’t been able to shake off the memories. New friends, new places, fresh starts. To no avail.
Had she really thought she could outrun the past?
How foolish.
And how ironic that the one job she’d been able to land had been here in Oregon, less than an hour from the shores of Cold Lake and the home where all of the horror had happened. Her life had come full circle, the perfect opportunity to “face the past” and “confront her demons,” as she’d been advised for years, but to what end? She was still a hot mess. Probably would be for life.
And the house she’d grown up in? The one in Portland that she’d inherited, or would inherit in less than two weeks. Currently occupied by Aunt Faiza, who had moved in within a month of the tragedy. She had proclaimed to the court that Kara needed “stability,” “a home she knew,” “a place that would anchor her.” But the old house high in the West Hills was anything but her home, a place she avoided, even going so far as to live with Merritt Margrove and his second wife rather than stay in that huge house overlooking the city, a place that seemed to harbor ghosts of the past. Though the bloody massacre had occurred sixty miles from the hillside home with its incredible views, it had never felt like home to Kara. Not after what had happened. She felt her throat tighten and her eyes burn at the long-ago memories of a happy childhood that had been severed by a maniac in the mountains one Christmas Eve.