“That would be a search party of one.” Mia pointed to herself. “And it would be a very grumpy search party.”

“I’ll try not to get myself killed, then,” Izzy said, the offhand comment landing with a thud between them. “Sorry.”

Mia smiled, but it was definitely out of pity. “Be careful.”

When Izzy stepped out into the hushed world, she drew in a breath, her rib cage expanding, rung by rung, as she tasted the hint of salt against her tongue. The muscles at the top of her neck unlocked; her teeth, her jaw, her fingers unclenched.

There was something inherently uncomfortable about being on St. Lucy’s. Izzy felt out of step, like she was tripping on cracks, like there were rules and rituals that everyone knew but that she’d never been taught.

The silence that came in the wake of the storm was a relief, was a break from the weight of holding herself so tensely.

The trees were stark silhouettes against the Armageddon-esque orange-and-brown-tinted sky. The world was fresh and yet bleak at once, the pretty coating of snow simultaneously obscuring any ugliness beneath while enhancing the end-of-the-word isolation of the island.

Izzy started down what would be the path toward the bar, her boots sinking in to her knees, her jeans damp and cold against her skin in an instant. Three steps later and she was regretting the rash decision to leave the house.

But she couldn’t go back now with her tail between her legs and face a warm, dry, and, more important, smug Mia after only a few minutes of braving the outdoors. She trudged forward, the snow, which was now the consistency of wet cement, grasping at her each time she tried to lift her legs free.

Panic tickled her throat at the thought of coming back up the hill. This had been such a bad idea. But there was light up ahead, a savior in the darkness, and so she pressed forward.

It took her another ten minutes to get to the bar, despite the short distance she had left to cover.

The room wasn’t as empty as she’d been expecting. A few men were perched on stools, just like before, and a family with a couple of kids had taken over some of the center tables. Pub food was piled high as little hands grabbed for chicken fingers and fries and mozzarella sticks. Quinn, the pilot, was in a back booth with another woman Izzy hadn’t met, and Patty wiggled her fingers at Izzy from her place in front of the dartboard. An older guy was taking his turn, and Patty was pushing up her cleavage to try to distract him. Izzy smiled and raised a hand in greeting.