She bundled up in her new parka that didn’t have Spencer’s head wound blood all over it. She’d gone with a bright yellow this time. Yellow like the sun. Yellow like the notes in the Caribbean steel drum album she’d been listening to as the world outside froze.

Hat, coat, gloves, keys, cookies. She took inventory of her pockets and body like a responsible adult. Oh, yeah. Phone. After a frantic search, she found it under a book she’d pretended to read on the couch. Her mind was too full of worry for Camille and what it meant to go home.

With a final glare at the Blackmail Cabinet in the kitchen, Remi stepped out into the winter not-so-wonderland.

She headed up Mahoney Avenue and hung a left on Cadotte. The Grand Hotel’s historic charm came into view as she puffed up the hill. It sat on the rise, dignified and distinguished, overlooking the Straits of Mackinac like some grand dame presiding over the island and lake. In the winter, the place sat shuttered and empty except for a few property caretakers.

As a kid, Remi recalled fantasizing about sneaking into the hotel in the winter and hiding herself away in one of the luxurious suites. Pretending she was rich and famous. A butler to bring her hot chocolate. A collection of scrunchies in every color of the rainbow. An entire closet full of her favorite candy that never ran out. Ahh, the dreams of an eight-year-old.

Here she was, thirty, with enough money in the bank to make those little girl dreams come true. But the reality was, money didn’t buy you the things you really wanted. Including safety.

To save herself an unnecessarily frost-bitten face, she cut across the road and hopped on a cart path that circled the snowy Jewel Golf Course. It was a shortcut that only existed in the winter without thousands of tourists birdieing holes or sunning themselves on emerald green lawns.

The Kleckner house was a one-story ranch with a wishing well in the front yard and a flock of fake flamingos in the flower beds. Given the fresh snow, the pink metal birds were up to their bellies and looked like they were swimming on a lake of white.

Smoke puffed cheerfully from the chimney, promising a toasty reception inside.

Remi knocked on the yellow door.

“Coming!”

A minute later, Mrs. Kleckner, in a Wolverines sweatshirt and jeans, opened the door. She was a weathered seventy-five with a short cap of silver hair. Her face was softly lined, something she attributed to raising three kids and a few decades of Mackinac winters.

“Remi Ford,” she said. “It’s good to see you, kiddo. Come on in. I was just making a pot of coffee.”

“That’ll go perfectly with fresh molasses cookies,” Remi said, holding up the bag.

Lois slapped a hand to her chest. “A girl after my own heart. Come on in, and I’ll check to see if Ben’s up from his nap yet.”