I release my fingers from the counter. “What do you mean?”

She draws her lips to one side, thinking. “That kid who died, he probably just fell from a tree or froze to death during some wilderness exercise.”

“Maybe,” I answer. “But if it was an accident, why is it such a secret? Why didn’t the camp counselors tell everyone what happened?”

“Who knows. Maybe they wanted to call the boy’s parents first. Or they didn’t want to scare anyone until the police came. I don’t know how this stuff works.” Again, her tone seems callous. As if she doesn’t want to be bothered with my questions.

But her expression drops and I realize it’s not that. It unsettles her to talk about it. She’s pretending it’s no big deal so that it won’t be. So she doesn’t have to think about being trapped up here, in these unforgiving mountains, with someone who may have killed that boy.

“Can we not talk about it?” she adds, and I know that I’m right. She’s afraid. And maybe she should be—maybe we should both be terrified.

“Sure,” I agree.

But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop thinking about it. That the thin, acrid feeling isn’t carving a gaping hole inside me. That I don’t feel restless and edgy, and that I won’t double-check the locks tonight before we go to sleep.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Suzy murmurs, her voice almost a whimper. Like she’s holding back tears.

The cabin roof creaks and moans as the wind outside picks up.

“The road will thaw eventually,” I say, a tiny offering of hope. But with winter now settled firmly over the mountains, it could take another month, maybe more. Storms have been rolling in over the lake daily, snow piling up on roofs and driveways and the only road down the mountain. We’re trapped. Hemmed in. Captive.

Suzy runs her fingers through her long, wavy hair, pulling against her scalp, and tucks her forehead against her knees, like she’s a little girl playing hide-and-seek. If she can’t see the darkness, then it can’t see her.

She doesn’t belong here.

“I can’t wait to leave this place,” she says, lifting her head to look out the window. I wonder if she means Jackjaw Lake, or Fir Haven—where she lives. If she wants to leave completely, escape this wild part of the country. “I hate the cold, these mountains, all of it. As soon as I graduate, I’m gone. I’ve been saving up.” She flashes me a look, like she’s divulging her deepest secret. “My parents don’t know. But I refuse to end up like everyone else who gets stuck here.”