Chapter 1

SUMMER McBRIDE

Dancing while doing dishes always makes it less of a chore.

I’m in full hip-swinging mode as I put the last clean mug on the drainer and twirl the dishcloth in circles over my head, in time to Aretha Franklin belting out instructions for me to “sock it” to her.

White soap bubbles land on the dark window and fly around the kitchen—should have thought that through and wrung out the cloth first.

As Aretha’s pearls of wisdom about respect fade out, I dry my hands on a tea towel and pull up my cozy socks for approximately the nine hundred and forty-seventh time. I was so proud when I finished making them yesterday. The polka dot pattern came out well, but I clearly need to work on the staying-up aspect.

I grab my phone off the counter and scroll for a more relaxing soundtrack to my favorite part of the day—a peaceful, snowy evening snuggled up with the dog in front of a roaring fire, sketching new knitwear designs. I say “snuggled”, but in reality I’m usually squished into the only remaining tiny spot on the sofa not occupied by my oversized mutt.

The thing I’ve loved most since inheriting my grandparents’ New Hampshire cabin is being tucked up here peacefully at night, not another human soul around. Particularly when there’s a storm coming, it’s dark out, and most of the light is from the fire. Well, the fire and my standard lamp that’s designed like two giant knitting needles sticking into a ball of yarn.

It’s like living in a warm, cozy bubble where I’m safe from the world and nothing, and no one, can hurt me.

I stop scrolling at a piano album my grandpa loved. It filled this cabin during long vacation evenings when I was a kid. He played it on a crackly old record player though, not through a Bluetooth speaker.

As I hit play, there’s a loud snap from the fireplace.

“Shitballs!”

I race across the small, open-plan room, grab the hearth rug, and shake a glowing ember toward the fire. I could do without the brand-new rug going up in flames. Spotted it last week hanging in the window of the fair-trade store while on my fortnightly trip to town. Thankfully, I’d taken my grandpa’s old truck and had room for it along with all the supplies. The muted reds and browns might be good color inspiration for a sweater pattern.

Elsa stretches across the sofa, yawns, looks at me, and thunks her tail once against the cushion. The wiry appendage, as well as her long legs, probably stem from the Irish Wolfhound that’s mixed in with a bunch of other breeds.

The kettle whistles on the stove.

“See, Elsa,” I tell her, even though she can’t hear me—she’s deaf. The rescue group and vet think she was born that way, but no one’s sure. I trot back into the kitchen area. “At least you don’t have to suffer these piercing sounds.”

I mix the hot chocolate, squeeze in next to the dog and hitch up my socks again. If I can figure out the correct elasticity, these might sell well.

When I pull the giant blanket my grandmother crocheted about forty years ago over my knees, Elsa lifts her head and rests her chin on my leg, one of her Muppet-like ears inside out.

My heart grows a little bigger every time she does something like that. The moment she looked up at me through the bars of her kennel at the shelter, I knew she was the one. My soul dog. I kiss the top of her scruffy noggin and turn her ear the right way around.

My sketchbook is on the coffee table, open to the rough drawing of a drapey, open-front cardigan I did yesterday. It’s not quite as unique as I’d remembered. I put my mug down and turn to a clean page, hoping inspiration will strike afresh.

There’s a rattle as my phone buzzes with a text.

IZZIE: Bit chilly here, had to wrap up.

The message is followed by a snowflake emoji. And she’s attached a picture of herself having an afternoon snack in the sun on the patio of her Los Angeles office building. It’s probably seventy degrees, but she’s wrapped in a lacy shawl I made her years ago and fake-shivering. She never fails to make me laugh.

IZZIE: Figured your shit out yet? Ready to come home to the
real world and not spend a second winter in NH?

I’m about to tap out a reply telling her not to pull the shawl out of shape, but I jump at the sound of a knock on the door. Instinctively, I put my hand on Elsa’s side. Sometimes I forget she can’t hear and expect her to react to noises, but she’s fast asleep and none the wiser.

I, however, am nowhere near as relaxed about it. The only person who ever shows up at my door is the delivery guy when he brings my yarn supplies. Oh, and a few months ago my nearest neighbor from about half a mile away came around looking for one of her sheep that’d escaped. I heard she later found it in a barn two fields down, snoozing in the hay with the farmer’s cat.

But other than them, not a single person has knocked at my door in the eighteen months since I moved in. And that’s just the way I like it. The whole point of coming here was to be alone, to get away from everything.

So the knocking sound isn’t only unnerving, it’s also disappointing—the last thing I want is someone interrupting my lovely peaceful evening just as I’m curling up.

I pause and listen, the only movement being my hand rising and falling with Elsa’s breath.

Silence.

Maybe I was mistaken.

Yeah, I must have misheard. Way more likely to be the wind blowing something, or an animal moving around than someone knocking. Maybe a deer sheltering from the snow?

All sorts of creatures seem drawn to my porch. There was the turkey that kept visiting purely to pace up and down for reasons I could never establish, the feral cat that decided it was the perfect place to bring three kittens into the world, and the unfortunate incident with the opossum. He got stuck between the railings and objected mightily to me unsticking him. Of course, I can’t be sure he was male. It’s a guess based on him believing he knew best. I have a scar on my arm to prove it.

Oh, okay, there it is again. Yeah, definitely a knock. Of the human variety.

I could ignore it. But it’s obvious I’m home. Even with the drapes shut you could tell the lights are on. And there’ll be smoke coming from the chimney.

But I could really do without whoever this is.

I put the phone down and gently move Elsa’s chin from my leg onto the sofa. She makes a contented grunty sound as she readjusts herself.

I ease back the edge of the curtain and peek out. Amid the snow swirling against the black sky, there’s the shape of a car parked in the driveway.

Who the hell is that? I don’t know anyone with a white car. And it takes a deliberate effort to drive up the long, winding lane to reach my solitary cabin at the end of it. No one could ever claim to be passing by.

This is how horror movies start. I can’t be the fool who answers the door to a stranger on a dark, blizzardy night while a packed theater shouts, “Nooooo.”

But what if someone needs help? It is pretty bad out there.

Elsa’s still snoozing blissfully on the sofa. That’s where I’d planned to be. Not only tonight but every night. I do not want to answer the door to God knows who. People usually go hand in hand with trouble.

I take a deep breath, blow it out, and shake my head. There’s no way I can ignore someone who might be in some sort of danger with the weather.

I flick on the outside light and open the door as far as the chain allows.

It’s a man. On my porch. A sight way less common than wildlife.

At least his head isn’t stuck in the railings.

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