I glance up at the window and see snowflakes, fat and delicate, riding the air currents slowly to the ground through the gray dawn. This brings up a memory as well. My Grandpa Wright. Back before Keith Russell, we used to drive out to his farm on Sundays for dinner he cooked himself. Grandma had died years earlier. My parents were always in a rush to go home when we were out there. They didn’t like his little house, which smelled of animals and pipe tobacco. But Corrine and I used to like it there. I don’t remember much about Grandpa, but I do remember one thing he used to say. When Dad would ask him if he was going to clean up the place, or if he’d agree to move into town, he’d always say, “If I winter.” When I asked what he meant, Dad frowned and said that was Grandpa’s way of saying if he lives until spring. Now I understand. There are no guarantees in this life. Who knows if any of us will survive?

I draw a deep breath and think about my trip to see Keith Russell. Talking to him at Sing Sing was part of the puzzle that I had to solve, on my own. I came away a stronger person. It’s that strength I tap into now. I’ll put up a fight, just as Cal said about Laken. I won’t go quietly.

I hear a door upstairs, the creak of the floorboards overhead. I bite my bottom lip and say a quick prayer.

Here we go, Molly.

“Melinda?” he calls, his voice hoarse.

A shiver runs through me. The ladder scrapes against the floor above and thumps as the bottom lands on the concrete. And he climbs down. His clothes are disheveled, and I can get a better look at him today in the daylight.

“Melinda.” He’s standing before me, his glasses bent and hanging precariously on his nose. His bottom lip is swollen, and there’s blood dried on the side of his face.

My heart thumps wildly. “Did you hurt her?”

“Don’t worry about my sweet wife. Today’s the day, Melinda. The end.” He sits next to me. Cal’s a big man, athletic, and his bulk makes me feel even smaller than I am. He smells sweaty and salty, as if he’s been swimming.

I swallow, my throat thick and scratchy. I want to keep him talking. Give the cops more time. “How did you know about me, Cal, really?”

He takes a deep breath, winces, and clutches his side. Then his big hands work over his head, stop to finger the blood dried at his temple. “I told you, I talked to Keith. He told me the whole story.”

“Why would he do that?”