But the worst part is my feet. I am wearing leather boots, but they’re not really snow boots, if you know what I mean. They add a much-appreciated three inches to my height, and they look gorgeous with skinny blue jeans, but they do absolutely nothing to protect my feet from the foot of snow now surrounding them.

Why oh why did I buy a pair of stylish boots that have no ability to function as boots? I’m starting to deeply regret all of my life choices at the moment. My mother always said not to leave the house in shoes you can’t walk a mile in.

“You okay, Tricia?” Ethan asks. “You’re not cold, are you?”

He crinkles his forehead, perplexed by my chattering teeth and lips that are slowly turning blue. He’s wearing the black ski jacket he bought last month, and although I can’t see his feet, I’m fairly sure his boots are big and warm. I want to wring his neck for making me do this, but that would involve taking my hands out of my deep pockets and would probably result in frostbite, because unlike him, I don’t have gloves. I must admit—the man came more prepared than I did.

“I’m a bit cold,” I reply. “My boots aren’t snowproof.”

Ethan looks down at his own footwear, then back up at me. After a moment of consideration, he tromps around the side of the car, then crouches down beside me. “Okay, hop on my back.”

Forget everything I said. I love my husband. Truly.

He gives me a piggyback ride along the rest of the path, past the FOR SALE sign on the snow-covered front lawn, and all the way to the front door. The porch has been largely shielded from the snow, and that’s where he carefully lowers me onto the ground. He shakes snowflakes out of his now damp blond hair and blinks droplets of water from his eyelashes.

“Thank you.” I smile at him, giddy with affection for my strong, handsome husband. “You’re my hero.”

“My pleasure.” And then he bows. Swoon. I’m loving this honeymoon phase of our marriage.

Ethan pulls off his wool gloves and presses his thumb against the doorbell. We hear the chimes ringing out throughout the house, but after several moments of waiting, no footsteps are coming to the door to let us in.

The other strange thing is that the first floor of the house is completely dark. We both saw that light on upstairs, so we assumed someone was home. We assumed it was Judy. But if Judy were here, she would be downstairs, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t be upstairs in a random bedroom. The first floor of the house is dead silent.

“Maybe the owners are home,” Ethan says, straining his neck to look up at the towering estate.

“Maybe…”