He handed it over. Her name was written across the white envelope in a harsh, black scrawl. Her mind adding a pink shimmer to the E’s. There was no return address.

“You planning to fix a little hockey action while you’re back? I heard Red Wings are down a couple so far this season.”

Mackinac’s main form of entertainment in the winter was the two-team street hockey league. Every Wednesday for nine weeks in the coldest stretch of winter, the Mackinac Island Red Wings and St. Ignace Storm faced off downtown on Lake Shore Drive. No skates, no pads, no helmets. Just stir-crazy residents wanting to beat the crap out of an orange ball—or each other—with a hockey stick.

High school sophomore Remi had orchestrated a ruse that made it look like their star forward had a leg injury and couldn’t compete in the Bynoe Championship Cup. She’d made $300 on the bet with his “miraculous recovery.” Until her mother made her give it all back.

“Not this time around. But I hope to catch a game while I’m here.”

“Too bad about that. Well, the boys and me got some deliveries to make,” he said, releasing the brake on the wagon. “Glad to have you back.”

“Glad to be back,” she said, not sure if it was the truth or not. “Bye, Mickey.”

With a salute, he clucked the horses into motion, and the wagon rolled off down the road.

Remi tiptoed through the snow and let herself back into the warmth of the cottage. The envelope was weighty in her hand. Maybe it was some kind of invitation?

Inside Lizzo still sang. The sunlight still reflected off the lake water. Red paint still dried on the floor covering. But something felt different. Off.

Glancing down at the envelope, something stirred inside her. A tiny tendril of anxiety.

So she hadn’t shredded it open the second Mickey had handed it to her. Didn’t that count for something?

She blew out a breath. Ignoring her impulses wasn’t relieving any stress at this point. With a rush of impatience, she ripped it open and dumped out its contents.

Inside, she found a thin stack of papers. They appeared to be printouts of blog posts and news articles. The top piece’s headline jumped off the page at her, and she cringed. A quick perusal of the others confirmed they weren’t much more flattering.

Artist Alessandra Ballard MIA since car wreck.

Rumors of rehab circulate for Chicago artist.

Artist’s friend still hospitalized, condition unknown.

City’s art community rocked by Ballard scandal.

The last page was a printout of an email.

Her hands started to shake as she skimmed the text. It was the message she’d sent just days earlier.

C,

I hope you’re okay. Please be okay. They won’t tell me anything. Please tell me you’re okay.

R

“No. No. No,” she whispered to herself.

Beneath it, there was a handwritten note in the same horrible scrawl as the address on the envelope.