Snow cradled her skull. Morgan stared up at the stars above, the evergreen spires making the sky into a jagged cutout. She gasped. Her throat made a hissing sound. So, this was what dying felt like. She thought she’d experienced it before, with all those plastic bags over her head, but this was different.

She heard footsteps crunching on snow as Bennett approached her. Heard his excited breathing, his lips peeling back as he grinned. The metallic sound of a spring as his finger squeezed the trigger.

And then, like a wounded doe always does, she shot upright and ran toward the water.

42 HUDSON

The crack of a gunshot caused Hudson to slam the brakes. His vehicle spun around once, twice, and butted up against a snowbank. The seat belt cut into his collarbone as it saved him from catapulting through the windshield. Thank God the airbag didn’t deploy.

Hudson punched the button to turn the flashers on, then unbuckled himself and tumbled out of the SUV. Morgan was in those woods. He knew it.

Entering the woods was like plunging into a dark, soundproof room. Insulated by snow and pine needles. The air was heavy here, like a weighted blanket tempting him to lie down and go to sleep.

But he had to find Morgan. He hadn’t driven all night to lose her.

His legs burned as he waded through the drifts. The smell of gasoline bled into the air, and within a minute, he discovered the source: a snowmobile with the engine running. The machine looked expensive, like something a Reynolds would have. He turned his head right then left, frantically scanning the trees for its operator.

A figure appeared not two feet in front of him. Hudson doubled back, aiming his gun. He exhaled when he realized it wasn’t a person, but …

What was it?

He took a few steps closer. It was a police call box—an antique—like the ones he’d seen in downtown Milwaukee. The door was partially open, stacks of what looked like cash lining the interior. A skeleton key was stuck in the lock.

Morgan.

Hudson touched the key, and immediately jerked his hand back. His skin shone red. Signs of a skirmish made themselves plain to him as his eyes roamed the forest floor. Drops of gore spattered the snow like someone had shaken a can of crimson spray paint.

She’d either injured someone or was injured herself. Up ahead, he could see a break in the trees, a clearing, maybe, where the snow leveled off. The blood spatter went that way, too.